Lift the Veil
by Parda
Summary: The Heavenly Father and the Holy Mother keep watch as their children set loose the Apocalypse. Latest chapter: Ruth reads the Winchester gospels, and Crowley kisses Castiel.
1. Hark, the Herald Angels

_**Author's Note** If you spot any typos or confusing parts or bad punctuation or missing words, no matter how minor, please do let me know. I like to fix them. And if you have questions or comments or any kind of feedback on the story, yes, I love to read that too. :) Thanks for stopping by to read!  
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><p><strong>LIFT THE VEIL<strong>**  
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><p><strong>Contents <strong>_  
>(provided for ease of navigation, Chapter 1 starts just after this list)<em>

1. **Hark, the Herald Angels** - Christmas 1990  
>2. <strong>A Priest Forever<strong> - Pastor Jim moves on  
>3. <strong>A Widening Gyre<strong> - In Iraq, Ruth has a bad day  
>4. <strong>Dreams of Angels<strong> - Michael and Raphael confer about Castiel; Michael finds a vessel  
>5. <strong>So Long to Devotion<strong> - Michael gives performance evaluations  
>6. <strong>Crossroads<strong> - Dean and Sam go on a road trip  
>7. <strong>Looking for the Answer<strong> - Ruth meets the Winchesters  
>8. <strong>Angelicide 101<strong> - Ruth and Sam in a hotel  
>9.<strong> Things Fall Apart<strong> - Sam and Dean go to Blue Earth and find demons*  
>10. <strong>The Falcon Cannot Hear<strong> - Chuck takes Castiel to Possum Trot Liquor store  
>11. <strong>Down the Line<strong> - Bobby figures things out  
>12. <strong>Still a Chance<strong> - The Mother and the Son in Heaven's garden  
>13. <strong>Blood Lines<strong> - Ruth learns the truth then sees Dean kill Zachariah  
>14. <strong>Cut the Cord<strong> - Michael strips Castiel of his grace (and his clothes)  
>15. <strong>Clear Your Heart - <strong>Dean enjoys pie then speaks his mind.  
>16. <strong>Resurrection - <strong>Gabriel and Kali at Elysium Fields  
>17. <strong>Return <strong>- Castiel has a score to settle  
>18. <strong>Author, Angel, Demon<strong> - Ruth finds teh Winchester Gospels, and Crowley kisses Castiel  
><em>and<em>**_ more to come..._**

_*The chapter with Dean in Blue Earth has been posted as its own story: "Blue Earth, Red Sky."_

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Hark, the Herald Angels<strong>

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><p><em><strong>December 1990: St. Peter's Church in Blue Earth, Minnesota<strong>_

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><p>Dean checked the church for unguarded exits then leaned forward and tapped the Archangel Gabriel on the shoulder. "Come on," Dean whispered, under cover of the music from the choir. "Let's get out of here."<p>

The dark head in the pew in front of Dean moved slightly from side to side, cautiously looking around, then nodded just a little, looking straight ahead.

This was their chance to escape.

Dean stood and stretched, keeping it casual, then the two of them went down the aisle, beneath windows of stained glass and past the statue of St. Peter in the corner. "We have to go to the bathroom," Dean announced to the woman guarding the church door. She was new and she didn't know him, so she let them go out without any warnings or arguments.

As the door swung shut behind them, the sound of the dress rehearsal for the annual Christmas pageant faded, and two boys shared triumphant grins. "I am so glad to get out," Nate said. "Gabriel doesn't do anything after the beginning, and there's like an hour to go."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. And he really couldn't stand to watch that part with the mom and the baby and the dad all together on the stage again. "You can ditch the halo here," Dean told the younger boy. "And the wings and the gown."

Nate took off the tinsel circle and the cardboard wings then set them on a chair. He peeled the gown off over his head and left that, too. "Where now?" he asked.

"Bathroom first," Dean said, because he kind of did have to go, and also because Dad said it was always a good idea to piss before you set out on adventure. "Then the basement. No windows. It's totally dark."

"Cool," Nate said with a grin.

In the bathroom, Dean practiced making yellow zigzags on the wall of the urinal, and Nate made a wobbly kind of circle. "Are your folks going to be here for the pageant tomorrow night?" Nate asked as they shook and tucked in and zipped up.

"My mom's dead," Dean said flatly, like he'd explained a thousand times before. Then, to stop any questions or worse, sympathy, he added quickly, "My dad's supposed to be back in time." Dean knew that didn't mean Dad would be back in time. He might not even get back in time for Christmas. Sometimes hunting trips took longer than planned.

Dean turned on the water in the sink to wash his hands. "Pastor Jim said the pageant's being taped, so we can watch the video later even if Dad doesn't make it."

Nate was making the soap bubbles go squish between his fingers. "Why do you call him Pastor Jim instead of Father Jim?"

Dean had answered this question before, too, but it was way easier than questions about his mom. "'Cause when we met him a couple of years ago, my little brother Sammy wouldn't call him Father anything, since he wasn't our real dad," Dean explained. "So he said we could call him Pastor Jim instead." Dean opened the bathroom door and checked for observers. The coast was clear, so he led the way to the stairs. Nate followed along behind.

"This is just the church hall," Nate said as they entered the dim and echoing room. Tables and chairs were stacked along one wall, and two rows of pillars held up the roof above. "Where we have cookies and doughnuts on Sundays after Mass."

"The basement is below this," Dean explained as they crossed the room. He opened a door, revealing stairs. With just Dean's flashlight, the boys ventured into the darkness below. There wasn't much, really, just a boiler room and some halls and storage spaces and another set of stairs going up, except for a pair of wooden doors that looked interesting but were locked. Still, once Dean turned off the flashlight so it was really completely dark, he and Nate had fun feeling their way around in the dark and running into spider webs and sometimes each other.

In one of the storage rooms, Dean turned his flashlight on again and spotted a pile of short copper pipes. "Let's make dart guns!" he said, and they flipped on the lights and found some wire and an old first-aid kit. "We wrap cotton wadding around the end of a thin stick then blow really hard to have it come out the end of the tube … Smack!" He rummaged through the kit and came out with some cotton balls and thin swabby things. "Perfect! See, pencils are kind of heavy," Dean explained. "But you can shave them down with your knife. Or cut twigs from a tree. A package of shish-kabob skewers from the grocery store works great! Already sharpened."

"I don't have a knife," Nate said sadly. "My mom says I'm too young."

Dean had heard of this bizarre attitude in other parents before. "Join Cub Scouts," Dean told him. "A knife is part of the uniform."

Nate nodded thoughtfully. "What about my sister? We're twins, so Ruth's the same age as me."

"She can join Girl Scouts. Brownies get knives, too," Dean told him. They went back to trying to tie the cotton ball on the end of his stick with some wire.

"If you don't have cotton," Dean continued, carefully fluffing out the cotton ball just so, "you can use thistle down or cat tail or any fluffy shredded stuff. For a pipe you can use bamboo or river cane or any tube. Cardboard tubes don't work very long, though; they get all wet from your breath." He shot the dart with an explosive puff of air, and it lodged in the back of an old chair. Dean grinned triumphantly, and Nate looked properly awed. "What you really need to do, though," Dean confided, "is dip the tip in poison."

"Wow," Nate breathed.

"Cleaning supplies can be pretty nasty stuff," Dean said, getting up to search again.

"Indeed they can," said Mr. Lukas, the church janitor, from the doorway, and Dean and Nate froze where they were. "Nate, they're singing _Joy to the World _upstairs."

Nate gulped. "That's the last song! I have to be there for the bows!" He took off at a run, leaving Dean alone in the basement with Mr. Lukas, who was missing his usual smile.

"We didn't break anything," Dean said immediately. "We were just playing."

Mr. Lukas raised one eyebrow. "Playing with poison dart guns?"

"Well, yeah." Dean didn't see the point of wasting time playing useless games. Games were to teach you how to hunt.

Mr. Lukas nodded slowly, then took Dean by the shoulder and steered him out of the room. "You can clean up later, kiddo," he said. "Right now we're going to go upstairs and applaud."

Dean trudged upstairs, Mr. Lukas right behind. Dean clapped half-heartedly but whistled and yelled "Sam the Lamb" really loud when all the sheep took a bow. His little brother glared at him from under floppy ears, and his teacher Mrs. Hoehn shook her head and squinched her lips all tight. Dean grinned and waved.

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><p>The next night at the pageant, Dean was planning on clapping for real, because it was his brother up there and you supported your family, no matter what. Especially since their dad wasn't there. Dean would clap for Nate, too.<p>

When Nate, being Gabriel, started telling "Mary" about the baby Jesus, the two men in suits and ties sitting in the pew in front of Dean looked at each other with their eyebrows raised. "That is not how it happened," said the dark one with the red tie.

"That is the story they have," the other man said. He had a blue tie and short brown hair.

"A story from the Archangel Gabriel," Mr. Red-tie said, and he gave a little sniff. When it came to the part where the angels were talking to the shepherds, both Mr. Red-tie and Mr. Blue-tie made little snorting noises, just like Mrs. Hoehn did whenever she disapproved of something Dean had said or done. Dean heard that noise a lot.

So when the pageant was over Dean clapped extra loud, because those men didn't clap at all and the pageant had turned out good. Sammy was cute, the girl playing Mary hadn't dropped baby Jesus on his head, and Nate had done all his lines right, no matter what Mr. Red-Tie said.

On the way downstairs, Dean twanged Suzie Dorland's halo. She twisted round as far as her cardboard wings would allow to scowl at him, just like she scowled at him during Mrs. Hoehn's fifth-grade math class. Suzie's hair was pretty red curls, and she had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

Dean smiled at her happily, his hand raised to twang her halo again.

"Dean Winchester," came the voice of the evil teacher Mrs. Hoehn from directly behind him, "you stop that this instant."

Dean put his hands in his pockets and put on his innocent face then continued down the stairs. There were lots of cookies in the church hall, and he was helping Sammy reach a brownie when Nate showed up, wearing his regular clothes.

"Hey, Dean, can we show my sister the dark rooms in the basement?" Nate asked. The girl who'd played Mary was standing next to him, a cookie in each hand. Her long brown hair was now done up in pigtails, one higher than the other, instead of loose down her back like it had been for the pageant. She'd gotten rid of her gown and blue veil. Dean didn't remember her name.

Dean looked around and didn't see Mr. Lukas anywhere. "Sure," Dean said, and he led the three younger kids across the room. But the doors to the stairs were locked, so the four of them had nowhere fun to go. "Catch me!" Dean challenged, and he took off running. Sam and Nate and his sister followed, and a couple of other kids joined in, weaving between the obstacles of grownups' legs and the tables and chairs.

It was a great game until Mr. Blue-tie grabbed Sammy by the arm. "Slow down, young man," he said with a smile. Sammy was nodding and saying "yessir," but the man didn't let go, even though he had to crouch a little since Sammy was so short.

Dean came right over, and Nate and his sister came, too. "We were just playing, Mister," Dean said, taking Sammy's other arm and putting on his earnest-and-remorseful face.

Mr. Red-tie came over, and he had no smile at all. "Where's your father?"

"He's not here tonight," Dean said, not letting go of his brother. Before they could ask about his mother, Dean added, "We're staying with Father Murphy." That name usually cut them some slack, but these two men didn't seem to care. They just stayed quiet and kept looking down at them, worse than teachers did.

"We'll be good," Sammy promised, looking up at Mr. Blue-tie. Nate and his sister nodded, their eyes wide and innocent. Dean couldn't pull off that look anymore; he was too old, but he looked respectful and serious and nodded, which usually worked.

"I'm sure you will," the man said, and he smiled at each of them, one by one. "All four of you." With his free hand he reached out to Nate's sister and tugged gently on one of her pigtails. She scowled at him and backed away.

"This is pointless, Zachariah," Mr. Red-tie said, sounding bored. "We should go."

Mr. Blue-tie let go of Sammy and straightened up. He smiled one more time. "Go play now," he said, making little shooing motions with his hands.

They backed away but didn't play anymore. "I don't like them," Nate's sister said as they walked away.

"Me, either," Sammy agreed.

"They were talking during the pageant," Dean informed the others. "They said we did it wrong."

"But I thought I did my lines right," Nate protested, looking worried. "Mr. Lukas helped me practice all afternoon since I messed up yesterday."

"You did it perfect," his sister told him fiercely. "That man is wrong." Nate smiled, happy again. Then their mother called for them, and Nate and his sister had to go home.

Dean got Sammy a drink of apple cider, and they sat in the corner with their horde of cookies. Dean kept an eye out for Mr. Blue-tie and Mr. Red-tie but didn't see them anywhere. They'd probably already gone home. Dean kept an eye out for Dad, too, like he'd been doing all night, but Dad didn't make it, and it was Pastor Jim who took them back to the rectory.

Late that night, Dad called on the phone. Sammy was already asleep. Dean was supposed to be, but he'd come down the stairs when the phone rang, and Pastor Jim let him talk on the phone. "I'll almost done, Dean," Dad said. "I'll be there soon."

"For Christmas?" Dean asked, trying to be cool and not sound _too_ eager, because he knew Dad had important work to do. But it would still be great to have a family Christmas here at Pastor Jim's. There was a tree and lights and presents and everything.

Finally, Dad said, "I hope so." He sounded really tired. "Take care of Sammy, ok?"

Dad always said that. Dean twisted the phone cord around his hand. "Ok."

"And mind Pastor Jim."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll see you soon, Dean," Dad promised.

Dean swallowed hard and nodded, until he remembered Dad couldn't see that. "See you soon. Good night." As he handed the phone back to Pastor Jim, Dean thought he heard Dad saying something, but Dean didn't like long goodbyes. He turned and ran back upstairs and went to bed. Sammy was still sleeping.

Dean stared into the darkness until he fell asleep.

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><p>Dad wasn't there the next night either, or for Christmas Eve, but he was there on Christmas morning, wearing a Santa hat and a goofy grin, sitting on the floor near the tree. Dean and Sammy tackled him from halfway across the room, and Dad tickled them unmercifully until they all ended up in a heap.<p>

He'd brought them presents, which Sammy and Dean promptly ripped open. They stopped playing only when Pastor Jim called them to eat pancakes and sausage for breakfast, and then they played again. It started snowing later that afternoon: beautiful white flakes you could catch on your tongue.

"It's a great Christmas, isn't it, Dean?" Sammy asked, as they lay on their backs in the snow and looked up at the sky.

"Yup, Sammy, it is," Dean agreed. It would have been the perfect Christmas, if only Mom was with them. But then they wouldn't be here. They would be in a real house with their own tree and their own yard. Maybe even a dog.

Dean and Sammy swished their arms and legs back and forth again, making angels in the snow.

After dinner (which had chocolate cream pie _and _apple pie for dessert), they watched the video of the pageant. Pastor Jim sat and smoked his pipe in his favorite lean-back chair. Sammy and Dean sat on the couch on either side of Dad, with his arm heavy and warm across their shoulders.

So Dean didn't mind watching the pageant again. He still thought the three kings wearing bathrobes and paper crowns looked stupid, but the palm trees and the stable looked cool, Pastor Jim sang _Ave Maria _really nice, and Sammy was cute. He had been one of the few little white sheep (the big sheep were gray), and he'd worn black mittens and black socks for hooves. His nose had been painted black, and the tips of his floppy ears were black, too. The teachers had pronounced him "adorable." One had even called him "lamby-kins."

Dean just called his little brother "Sam the Lamb" over and over and over again, until Sammy hit him. Pretty hard, too. The kid was getting stronger every day. Dean smiled at the thought.

"Dean helped Mr. Lukas build the scenery," Pastor Jim told Dad. "He says Dean's got a real knack for working with tools."

"That's my boy," Dad said, sounding pleased and proud, and rubbed his hand through Dean's hair.

"Aw, Dad," Dean said, smoothing down his hair, but feeling pleased and proud inside.

They watched the Grinch stealing Christmas and had another piece of pie. Then it was time to get ready for bed. Dad read them a story and tucked them in then turned off the light. "They have Christmas in heaven, right, Dad?" Sammy asked.

Dad stopped, half in and half out of their room. Dean couldn't see his face, because Dad looked like a cardboard cutout, all black in front but with the hall light glowing behind him and making tips of his hair silvery. "I'm sure they do, Sammy."

Sammy nodded then looked up at the ceiling and called, "Merry Christmas, Mommy!"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut really fast, but the tears were still there. Sammy had been only a baby when Mom had died; he didn't even remember her, but Dean did. Not very well, and not as much as he wanted to, but he remembered her enough to miss her. A lot. Dean rubbed his face on his pillow, glad that it was dark.

Then Dad came back in and pulled open the curtains so that they could see the stars. "Look for her out the window, Sammy," Dad said, "not up at the ceiling, ok? 'Cause that's where heaven is, and that's where your mom is. In the stars."

Dad looked up and called, "Merry Christmas, Mary!" which sounded funny with the two Mary-words in it, but that was Mom's name, just like Mary the Mother of God that Pastor Jim prayed to every day.

Then Dad gave them another hug and a kiss goodnight. "Your mom would be real proud of you boys," Dad told them from the doorway. "And so am I."

Some more tears came, but Dean didn't mind them so much now. "Merry Christmas, Mommy," Dean whispered silently. He stared at the stars and the lowering moon until he drifted off to sleep.

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><p>They left the next morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise. Mr. Lukas smiled and waved goodbye as they drove away, a shovel in his other hand. The snow angels in the yard had frozen overnight, and they glittered in the early morning sun, empty and beautiful.<p>

As the Winchesters' car passed the high school on the way out of town, two figures sitting on a park bench watched it go by. They wore no coats in the freezing air. One wore a red tie. The other wore blue. Behind them rose a tall statue of a green man with leaves instead of hair. A scarlet ribbon had been tied around his neck, with one end hanging down almost to his hand, like a trickle of blood.

"So those are the two chosen vessels," the figure with the red tie said, staring after the car. His voice was heavy with disbelief. "Obnoxious little mud monkeys." He sighed. "And soon they will grow up to be big obnoxious mud monkeys."

"Not soon, enough, Uriel," his companion answered. "Not soon enough."

"You speak truth, Zachariah," Uriel replied. They had waited centuries for the end to begin. They stood as one then began to walk between the trees. They left no footprints in the snow. Uriel paused to look at the green statue, and his lips twisted in disgust. "They make sacrifice here to this false idol."

Zachariah nodded, for what else could that black cage between the statue's feet be for? "A fertility ritual?" he suggested. "Offerings to the corn god for rain or some such."

"Blasphemers," Uriel muttered, and they moved on. "I see the twins have been properly prepared."

"Yes, a 'cupid' attended their baptism and took care of it then."

"Whose vessels are they?" Uriel asked next.

"That revelation has not been granted to me," Zachariah said, the words as formal and stiff as the expression on his face. "I'm sure they have a part to play." He smiled, for Heaven preferred its servants to be cheerful and content at all times. "As do we all."

"As do we all," Uriel dutifully echoed, and he too smiled, content with his allotted place and task, as Heaven required them to be.

"I do know one thing," Zachariah said, and his smile was truly cheerful now. "That was the best Christmas that Sam and Dean and their father will ever have."

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><p><strong>Next: Pastor Jim moves on<br>**


	2. A Priest Forever

**A Priest Forever**

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><p><strong>26 December 1990, Blue Earth, Minnesota<strong>

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><p>"You're burying the angels," a small voice said sadly.<p>

Mr. Lukas turned to see Ruth, the little girl who had played Mary in the pageant, looking up at him with serious brown eyes. Wisps of brown hair peeked out from under her knitted blue hat with a red pom-pom on the top, and the ends of two pigtails lay on her shoulders.

"The walk needs to be clear," he explained and scooped up more snow then tossed it onto the snow angels the Winchester boys had made the day before.

"I have a garden angel," Ruth announced.

"You mean a guardian angel?" Mr. Lukas asked.

She shook her head, so that the red pom-pom danced. "It lives in the garden behind our house, so it's a garden angel. But maybe it's a guardian angel, too, because it said it was watching over my brother and me to guard us. That's why Nate wanted to be an angel in the pageant. But we don't get to see our angel very often because it has to watch over other kids, too."

"I see." Mr. Lukas paused with his shovel loaded with snow. "Did this angel tell you its name?"

"Michael."

Mr. Lukas tossed the snow, obliterating an angel head.

"Nate was glad you helped him remember his lines," Ruth said next.

"I was glad to help, kiddo," Mr. Lukas said. He stopped shoveling to watch a cardinal fly to a pine tree far away, bright red against dark green.

"Even though Nate said everything right, Dean said two men watching said we did it wrong."

"Did they now." Mr. Lukas leaned on his shovel. "And what were their names?"

"I don't know their mister-names. One of them called the other Zachariah."

Mr. Lukas nodded slowly then went back to shoveling, faster now, filling in the wings.

"Do you have a garden angel?" Ruth asked.

He gave her a friendly smile. "Oh, I get along without one, mostly."

She nodded gravely, with all the wisdom of her six years. "Most grownups do." Then she went on her way, red pom-pom dancing with every step.

Mr. Lukas kept shoveling until the angels were completely buried under piles of snow. Later that afternoon, he grabbed a box of candy for himself and a bag of chips for Father Jim and went over to the rectory to watch the football game.

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><p>For the next fifteen years, other Christmases came and went, and other children dressed up as angels and lambs for the annual Christmas pageant at St. Peter's Church. Father Jim Murphy watched over his flock. Mr. Lukas cut the grass and shoveled snow, moved chairs and dug graves. Nate and Ruth grew up in their mom and dad's house and did all the normal things: school, sports, summer camp, falling in and out of love, college, the military, jobs.<p>

Sam and Dean didn't have a normal kind of life. They lived on the road and in hotels with their dad, sometimes staying with friends. They had come back to town a time or two. Their dad and Father Murphy went on hunting trips together. As the boys had gotten older, their dad took them along.

"Get any deer?" people would sometimes ask, but the answer would always be no. John Winchester and Jim Murphy hunted other game: werewolves, vampires, ghouls … monsters of all kinds.

So when, on a beautiful summer morning, a young woman wearing a red jacket walked into the church then looked up at Father Murphy with a sweet smile and completely black eyes, he recognized it for the demon it was. Instead of being windows to a soul, those eyes were doorways to hell.

He ran downstairs to his cache of weapons, but the demon followed and broke down the doors. It stood in the doorway, its face in shadow, its blonde hair a mockery of a halo. Behind it, crimson beads of light danced down the stairs from the stained glass window above.

"What do you want?" Father Murphy asked.

The demon walked into the room, still smiling, a silver knife in its hand. "The Winchesters."

"I haven't spoken to John Winchester in over a year," Father Murphy told it, wondering why a demon would be searching for hunters by name. He backed up so his weapons were in front of him, not behind him. What could he grab and aim in time? Demons were unbelievably fast. And strong. And deadly.

It was then he truly realized that he was about to die.

Father Murphy breathed deeply and let go of his fear. The morning had been wonderful, a gift from above, and God was waiting for him to come home. "You're wasting your time," he told the demon. "Even I did know where they were, I'd never tell you."

Its smile twisted into a grimace of frustrated hate. "I know."

The silver knife flashed, and crimson beads of blood danced in the air. His blood, Father Murphy realized with some surprise. There was no pain. The scent of summer flowers lay heavy on the warm summer air. The demon in red faded away, washed out by brilliant white light, and an angel with silver wings and a face of fierce beauty appeared. A bell started to chime, far away, like the laughter of stars.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God." The words, said thousands of times, came easily to Father Murphy now. "Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death."

"Amen," the angel finished for him then reached out and lay two fingers on his forehead, and the light shone about them as the bell chimed clear.

The angel vanished with a feathery whisper, and now a woman stood before him, robed in blue and white, and with starry shimmers in her long brown hair. From a deep well of joy, Father Murphy found himself singing one of his favorite songs, "I wake up to the sound of music; Mother Mary comes to me."

She smiled and joined in, in a voice that held all the harmony of the spheres, "Speaking words of wisdom: Let it be." Then she held out her hands, saying, "Welcome home, Jimmy," and she smiled just for him.

Father James Murphy smiled back as he took her hands and let go of his life.

* * *

><p><strong>June 2006<strong>

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><p>Mr. Lukas found Father Murphy's body. Spatters of his blood clung like tiny red jewels to the neat collection of guns and weapons on the wall. Father Murphy had been a hunter. He'd been a scholar, too; his collection of old books had been spattered with his blood as well.<p>

Mr. Lukas stayed calm, didn't touch anything, just locked the doors to the church and called the police. He called Monsignor Sirk at the diocese headquarters in Winona, who then called the cardinal's office in St. Paul, who sent a bishop to handle the funeral—and the press. Priests getting murdered in their own churches tended to attract the media. Priests with an amazing collection of knives and guns were also noteworthy.

"At least it wasn't kiddie porn," Mr. Lukas heard the bishop tell to the cardinal on the phone. "Research," the bishop told the police and the media later. "Father Murphy was writing a book about his time in Vietnam."

When the body had been taken away and the forensic investigators had given up, Mr. Lukas took down the yellow crime-scene tape and cleaned up the blood. It took a while.

The church was absolutely packed for the funeral mass. Mr. Lukas had to set up chairs downstairs. At the gravesite, the lead tenor from the choir sang _Ave Maria_ as people stepped forward to drop flowers onto the coffin then slowly walk away, past the shrine to the Holy Mother and under the lane of cedar trees. It was a beautiful service on a beautiful day. Father Murphy would have been pleased.

Mr. Lukas waited until the people were gone before he and Mr. Torvald began shoveling dirt into the grave. It was soothing work, a good way to honor the dead. They'd nearly covered the coffin with dirt when four men came to the grave.

"Can we give you a hand with that?" offered one, a burly fellow with a beard who looked uncomfortable in his suit. His companions were a mixed bunch—one bald, one tall, one black—but all with patient, watchful eyes. "We were friends of his."

"Did you serve with him?" Mr. Lukas asked, because they had that military look about them, and you didn't often see black and white standing side by side, even in these days.

The burly one gave him a crooked smile. "Some hunting trips, now and again. He was a good man to have at your side." Mr. Lukas handed him the shovel, and Mr. Torvald handed his to the black man. The two worked in steady rhythm for a time, as if they were old hands at the job. "Here you go, Caleb," the burly one said when the grave was about half done, handing his shovel to the bald man.

The black man gave his shovel to the tall fellow, who said, "Thanks, Rufus." The shoveling went on.

Mr. Lucas and Mr. Torvald tidied up the rest of the grave site until the grave was filled. It was well done and neat, the dirt tamped firmly down, and Mr. Lukas took back the shovels and nodded his thanks to the four, who nodded back then walked off across the field of graves.

Back in the church, Mr. Lukas wasn't surprised to find quite a few people kneeling in prayer. The brutal loss of their priest had hit the parish hard. In the vestibule stood the display board for Father Murphy. It had been created only a few months ago for his silver jubilee in the priesthood, and was covered with pictures going from babyhood to just last year. In the center of the montage was his portrait. He was dressed in black with the clerical collar, with that wry, faint smile of his that let you know he understood and that the penance wouldn't be all that bad. The caption on it read: "Fr. James Patrick Murphy (1951 – 2006) _Thou art a priest forever_."

Requiescat in pacem.

Mr. Lukas touched the center picture briefly then lifted the display board off its stand and carried it to the closet. There was a wedding at four that afternoon, and Father Murphy would want the life of the church to go on. "Joy follows sorrow," he had often said.

The hospital volunteer would be here soon to pick up the funeral flowers so they could be rearranged into bouquets for patients. Mr. Lukas started removing the cards, reading them as he went. Nathan and Ruth and their parents had sent a spray of red and white roses with a card that said, "We miss you, Father Jim!"

"For a true comrade and a good friend," read the card on a wreath of white calla lilies and golden roses. "From the Winchester Family – Father and Sons."

Mr. Lukas smiled to himself, a little sadly, remembering the brothers and the father, whom he hadn't seen in many years.

He pocketed the cards. It was time to begin.

* * *

><p><strong>Next: Escape from Hell<br>**


	3. A Widening Gyre

**A Widening Gyre**

* * *

><p><em><strong>By the Rivers of Babylon<strong>_

* * *

><p>Angels circle on feathered wings of white, pure and eternal, so beautiful they sear the eyes. The sun rises and sets. The stars turn in the darkness.<p>

An angel plummets to earth, not falling but diving, its wings furled tight against its body, like a falcon stooping on its prey. The sands of the earth open for it, a black hole lit by flickers of flame, and the angel disappears. Above, angels soar on outspread wings, circling … watching … waiting…

A vomit of angry fire erupts from beneath the earth, splitting the land and scorching the air with a bloody red flare. From that fiery pit flies the angel, its wings laboring in slow sweeps, carrying a heavy load. Black tentacles tipped with red fire reach up to twist and grow around the angel, smothering it, dragging it down, back to the pit. The angel hacks at the tentacles with a sword of white fire, and other angels swoop low, fire-swords in their hands. The tentacles fall smoking and bloody, writhing, oozing out gobbets of red flesh that form themselves into scuttling spiders, all legs and bloody eyes. Gusts from angel wings swirl the smoke into cyclones of darkness, and more tentacles slither away. Angels fall, shrieking, and spiders crackle and burn.

Finally, the laden angel flies free. Smoke billows, acrid and choking, and the earth closes over the hole. The angels circle, climbing slowly, borne upward by the plume of hot air, carried to heaven by the flames of hell. As they rise, red blood drips from white swords onto the sands far below, spattering upon the faded outline of ancient charred wings.

* * *

><p><strong>18 September 2008, Iraq<strong>

* * *

><p>Ruth woke but couldn't move, her limbs still held heavy and useless by dreaming. Her heart was pounding, though, hard and rapid against her ribs. She didn't want to close her eyes; she didn't want to see those broken wings again. But she couldn't close her ears to stop from hearing the screams of the angels as they died.<p>

She could, however, get up and do something, even if it was nearly forty minutes until reveille. She wiped her face on her pillow to get rid of the tears. Her cot creaked as she got up, and she moved quietly to let her tent mates sleep. She stripped off her white t-shirt and green shorts, put on bra and underwear, then dressed in a brown t-shirt, cammies, and boots. A quick comb-through took care of her short hair, and she grabbed her cover on the way out.

The camp was still mostly asleep, and the sun was just coming up, a glow of pink above the eastern rim. It was beautiful, quiet, and peaceful out here, just what she needed after that dream. She picked a spot where the perimeter fence didn't block the view too much, then settled in to watch the dawn.

She stood and saluted while Marines raised the American flag over the camp, and remained standing for a few more minutes until the sun had risen. She knelt for her morning prayers—a decade of the rosary and an act of contrition, then decided to add a prayer for the fallen angel. "Prayer is never wasted," Sister Mary Bernice had often said, and dream angel or no, that death had been an ugly one. Most deaths were, out here. Ruth had heard a priest would be coming to camp next week, and she hoped the rumor was true this time; she hadn't been to Mass in months. She missed it.

A flight of three V-22s rumbled over, their shadows flowing over the sands below. Ruth crossed herself then stood and waved, just in case her brother was flying today. She'd send an email to her twin later, asking if he'd had the same dream. Sometimes she and Nathan shared.

Ruth took a deep breath of the morning air then brushed the sand off her ass and her knees. Time to start the day. After breakfast came the standard briefing: always look for weapons or signs of problems. Don't shoot unless absolutely necessary. Try not to get shot yourself. Watch out for IEDs. Come back alive so you can do it again the next day.

"Same old routine, eh, Sergeant Halston?" Corporal Hernandez asked her after they had suited up to go outside the wire.

She gave a half-grunt in reply as she got in the Humvee, but nothing was routine out here. Ruth's job was to search the women going through the checkpoint, since they wouldn't let strange men even look at them, let alone touch them. She talked to the women, too, trying to make friends, and showed the children how to make shadow pictures on the walls with their hands. It was a good game for this place: silent, nothing to carry, nothing to lose. All you needed was some sunshine, and God knows there was plenty of that, except during sandstorms. The kids liked the shadow pictures. Some of them even smiled. It was a good day.

They were on their way back to camp when the attack came. A white jeep came speeding alongside them, then careered into the lead vehicle and exploded in a gout of brilliant orange flame. The jeep and the Humvee tangled together to make a roadblock of twisted metal. Their driver slammed on the brakes, while men appeared on the rooftops, all of them holding guns. Like drops of water landing in a pool, Ruth could see bullets hitting here and there, making ripples in the black smoke that was billowing from the blasted jeep. She couldn't hear any gunfire. She couldn't hear anything.

But she could still see, so she could still shoot. Ruth took up position next to Hernandez at the window, and together they picked off bad guys. She took down the guy with the rifle on the roof of the blue building across the street, the bullet catching him under the chin so that the back of his head exploded in a fountain of red. Ruth grimaced. She'd been aiming lower, for his chest. She kept scanning back and forth, up and down, shot a few more, took out a shadowy figure coming toward them through the smoke, laid down some fire near the house door every so often just in case, and trusted in her squad mates to do the same on the other side, while Marines from the broken Humvee piled into theirs.

For a moment, the place grew quiet and nothing moved, except for the oily black smoke drifting along and the flapping of laundry hung out to dry. One of the sheets was pink, with yellow flowers. "Madre de Dios," Hernandez muttered, and Ruth was glad to know she could hear again. Then he grinned at her, his teeth very white against the grime. She grinned back, but held back the weird laughter bubbling up from God knew where. It wasn't funny, and it wasn't over. She said a silent prayer of her own, calling upon blessed Michael and Mary the Mother of God to protect and shield them from harm.

"All in!" came the report, and Ruth slid over, trying to make room. She was crushed up against the wall near the window, so that she could feel the comforting vibration of the engine as they started to move. Johnson was moaning, a horrid gagging sound, and clutching at the tourniquet on his left forearm with his right hand. His left hand was hanging by shreds of skin and tendons, swinging back and forth with every bump in the road. Ruth looked away.

More gunfire splattered after them, a parting gift, and Ruth felt the shudders of the armored wall against her shoulder and side. It was hot, with all the people crammed in, but Ruth suddenly felt cold. It was getting darker, too, even though they were going away from the smoke. "Holy Christ," she heard Hernandez swear, and she wondered why his hands were red with blood and why he was tugging at her arm. She blinked several times, trying to see, but the darkness grew.

Then she couldn't see anything, and she couldn't hear anything anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>Among the Stars of Heaven<strong>

* * *

><p>"It begins."<p>

The Mother turns, spinning on her axis, for in this age she has taken the form of a star. She dances with planets, pulls comets into her realm, and sets the darkness alight.

The Son has come to dance with her, light-years away, his star ablaze in white and blue. "The first seal on Lucifer's cage has been broken," he tells her. "Heaven laid siege to Hell to bring the vessel Dean Winchester back to Earth. The other vessels await."

The Mother flares, so that tongues of flame reach out to lick the planet closest to her. Its very rocks dissolve into gases, an act of destruction sublime. Creation will follow, in time.

"It began long ago," she replies. What began in joy became sorrow. Love had become hate. And sorrow might become joy once more. "Now it begins again."

The Father is already in place, creating the prophecies that must be fulfilled. The Mother leaves the stars to their dancing, a minuet of precision and power. In the ceaseless flow between matter and energy and darkness and light, the particles change partners, change tempo, change space and time itself. Gravity and other forces order them, and they obey.

Her disobedient children need her, and she goes.

* * *

><p><strong>Next: Dreams of Angels<strong>


	4. Dreams of Angels

**Dreams of Angels**

* * *

><p>Blood carries power; thus it has always been, thus it will always be. The blood of redemption, of sacrifice, of life, of death.<p>

There was plenty of blood in the hospital, and that's where Ruth ended up, with her arm shot to hell and her lung collapsed and her military career over. She dreamed of blood in the days and nights that followed. Her blood, her friends' blood, the blood of the men she'd killed.

The blood of angels.

In December, the dreams began again, night after night after night. Angels fell, one by one, tumbling out of the sky to spill their blood and etch their wings upon the world. The last angel, the ninth, came to earth to grapple with another, and they fought each other in the shape of men, with the savage brutal blows of two who had once been friends.

That last angel fell to a silver blade wielded by an angel in a woman's form, stabbed from behind, betrayal all around. The silver-white knife sliced through the spine at the nape of the neck, splitting the windpipe and skewering the larynx. White fire erupted from the inside, broiling the heart and melting ears and eyes and tongue. After the angel died, its wings were still beautiful, spread out on either side.

The other two angels walked away, side by side, male and female in form, yet sexless and ageless all the same. Their faces were shadowed. Their wings were hidden and furled.

Christmas was a few days later, and Ruth's parents came to see her in the VA hospital. Nathan called. Ruth opened presents and ate a few cookies and didn't have to remember to smile. She did therapy and went through operations and did therapy some more. It got easier, as the days went by. Her arm worked. Her fingers moved. She would be fine.

They sent her to Quantico for her final tour. In late spring, when all the daffodils had faded, she dreamed of angels again.

In this dream, an angel in a man's body exploded. Gobbets of human flesh were flung in the air, like bits of a shredded red balloon. The angel who had killed him flew heavenward, pure and beautiful and serene. Another angel rose from the fiery pit, but did not rise heavenward. It glimmered on the horizon like a star in the morning, pure white and icy cold, its tongues of flame dancing with delight, its wings unfurled, magnificent and free.

Ruth woke from that dream and saw only darkness. A shudder rippled through her, and she rolled onto her side and curled up in a ball. Fetal position, they called it. Trying to hide.

There was no hiding from this, because you couldn't hide from dreams. And really, there was nothing to hide _from. _They were only dreams. Disturbing, wrenching, bloody dreams, yes, but still only dreams.

Even so, she hated watching angels die. Ruth sighed and sat up, knowing she wouldn't get back to sleep, certainly not today. She flipped on the light, changed the bandages on her right arm, scratched the itching scar on her side, dressed carefully in her uniform, and took her time packing her gear.

It was still too early for breakfast, so she went outside to watch the sun rise. The leaves on the trees were bright green; the air tasted of growing things and last night's rain. It would be hot and humid today, just like it had been the day she took the oath, seven years ago, when she first became a Marine.

That was all over now. After the paperwork was all done and Ruth's buddies had taken her out for one last beer, she put on civilian clothes and got on a plane to Minnesota, to spend some time with her parents. After that, she'd have to find a job and get on with her life, start something new.

As Ruth stared out the tiny airplane window at the clouds, she found herself wondering what the angel had carried out of the fiery pit nine months ago. She wondered what the angels' names were, or if they had names at all. Why would angels be killing angels?

And if angels lived in heaven, where did they go when they died?

* * *

><p><strong>The Garrison of Heaven<strong>

* * *

><p>"Castiel is dead," Raphael reports to Michael as the two archangels join in conclave, two only of the four. Only two, where there should be four, four archangels created to be the four pillars of Heaven: Michael, Samael, Raphael, Gabriel. Once their names had rolled out to the four corners of the universe, and all had answered, joyful to be the servants of El.<p>

Only two are present now. Their wings touch, their flames mingle, and only truth can lie between them, for they taste each others' minds. "That angel is no more."

"Yet Castiel lives again," replies Michael. The words are mild, measured and serene. Flames shimmer with rage. "See." He opens a window into the time when Castiel emerged from beyond the veil, perfect and new-formed, gleaming wings unfurled across the sky. All of Castiel's eyes are open, and the search takes but an instant. Castiel dives to Earth, straight to the Winchester brothers, whom Zachariah and two companions are showing the error of their ways. In his vessel form, Castiel kills the two angels with a silver blade and orders Zachariah to go. Castiel then carves Enochian sigils into the humans' ribs.

After that, Raphael and Michael can see no more. Michael closes the window into time with a snap. "Only an archangel or God can bring an angel back to life."

Raphael gleams golden and righteous. "I am the one who killed Castiel for his disobedience. I would not undo what I had done."

"I taste this truth in you," Michael agrees. "It certainly was not I."

"I taste this truth in you," Raphael formally acknowledges in turn.

"And since our Father is gone," Michael continues, "that leaves only two." Gabriel, the wastrel, and Samael, who had disobeyed and rebelled, losing the title of the one who brings to souls to El. After that, instead of all souls going to Heaven, as was God's plan, some souls went to Hell, a shadowed realm. Samael had taken the name Lucifer, the bearer of light, the morning star. Blasphemy of the highest kind, for light was created by God.

And for that, Michael would kill Lucifer. Finally, the waiting was almost over. The killing would come soon.

"Gabriel cares nothing for the plans of Heaven or of Hell," Raphael notes. "That has been clear since Lucifer was locked in the cage and Gabriel disappeared."

"True. Yet now that the cage is open, Lucifer is free," Michael says.

"Free to resurrect angels," agrees Raphael. "And so Castiel lives again. Though Castiel may not know the role Lucifer has played."

"It does not matter," Michael says. "Castiel has always been disobedient and headstrong. We were too lenient before."

Raphael agrees, though the screams from that discipline are still echoing even now. "Do you think Lucifer will raise Uriel, too?"

"Yes and probably soon. Uriel believed in Lucifer's blasphemous cause. As did others." They count the names and find the number too high. And there is still more of concern. "Lucifer is also free also to recruit."

"Gabriel?" Raphael asks softly then answers: "Yes. Those two were ever a pair. Gabriel would follow again. And others might follow Gabriel, when they would never follow Lucifer."

Michael does not need prophecy to see what will be. "And so Lucifer builds an army, to set the hosts of Heaven aflame once more."

"This is what we wanted," Raphael reminds Michael. "The final war, which we shall win. We can resurrect the angels loyal to us that Uriel had killed. We can build our own army, make it the glory of Heaven. For in the end, Michael, you shall triumph over Lucifer. You must."

"Yes," Michael replies. "In the end, I will." The two archangels part in a flare of searing white and red and gold, their conclave done.

Michael sets his attention on the small blue planet, half-hidden behind its veil of clouds. A lovely world once, dirtied now by human hands, its waters fouled, its air unclean. There the final battle would happen, as the prophecies foretold. There the Apocalypse would come. Fire would cleanse that world, leaving it pure. Souls would come to Heaven, as God had planned long ago, and leave the planet empty and lovely once again.

There Michael would triumph over Lucifer, destroying the angel who had first defied God.

But God's law bars the angels from the planet until they find willing vessels and take on human form. Generations ago, Michael set the cherubim to the tedious task of ensuring breeding pairs, creating useful bloodlines so that the prophecy might be fulfilled. Several vessels are of the proper age. Yet God had also given humans the gift of free will, and the vessel Dean has just said no.

Michael sets out to teach the vessel Dean the proper way to behave. "No," Dean keeps repeating. "No way." Michael takes no comfort in knowing that Lucifer's chosen vessel is also saying no. It is only a matter of time. It is all a matter of time.

So when Lucifer takes a temporary vessel, Michael turns to other plans. All the while the angels circle, watching, waiting, and the prophecies begin to be fulfilled.

* * *

><p><strong>Fall 2009, Dayton, Ohio<strong>

* * *

><p>Ruth's brother called her in October. "How's it going?" Nathan asked, his image lagging just a bit behind the sound on her laptop screen.<p>

"Ok," she replied, sitting cross-legged on her bed and hugging a pillow in her arms. Her brother was unshaven, his hair needed combing and a trim, and his flight suit had a smear of grease along one sleeve. "You look terrible," she said. "What did you do? Join the Air Force?"

"Nah," Nathan said with a grin. "All they have is jets. I want to keep flying real aircraft, so I'm staying in the Marines."

"Good," she said, keeping the smile on her face. At least one of them could. She'd planned to stay in, even been thinking about putting in for officers' candidate school, but those bullets a year ago and the medical discharge had taken care of that. "How is it there?" she asked.

"Busy for us this week. We just landed." He rubbed the back of his fingers over his scruffy cheek in silent explanation. "But things are slowing down on the ground, so that's good. How's your new job with that building company in Ohio?"

"Boring to the point of insanity," Ruth said. "I heard a story about one guy who took a sledge hammer to his work station after he'd been there for three weeks."

"And how many weeks have you been there?"

"Four," she replied, her moroseness only partly for show. "It feels like four years. But it's a job and it pays the bills. I'm doing ok."

Nathan's eyebrows started touching across the bridge of his nose, a sure sign of disbelief and suspicion. "Are you—"

"Yes, I'm seeing my counselor," Ruth broke in. "Yes, I'm eating and exercising regularly. I go to a horse barn on Saturdays and I go to church on Sundays. I'm not drinking too much and I'm not using drugs and I sleep through the night." Most nights, anyway. "I am doing ok."

"All right, all right, all right," Nathan said rapidly, holding up his hands in surrender. "Just checking, you know?"

"Yeah," Ruth said, calming down. "I know." She'd seen the suicide statistics on veterans.

"How's the arm?"

"Better. I'm taking a knitting class. It helps with dexterity." Her arm would never be full strength again. She'd lost too much muscle, and the bone was held together with screws. But she still had both her hands and all her fingers, and she was lucky, she knew.

"Any nightmares?" he asked.

He was still checking up on her. Ruth didn't mind, not really. He was taking care of her, the same way she took care of him. "Nothing too weird," she said. "You?"

He shrugged. "Some. But I'm still over here." He dragged his hand down over his mouth then asked, "Any more angel dreams?"

"Not since May," she said with relief. Nathan nodded but didn't say anything. She looked her brother over more carefully. He seemed the same as ever—brown hair, brown eyes, nice smile with one crooked tooth from a hockey puck in a pick-up game years ago—but his eyes were serious and he had that look he got when he wanted to say something but didn't know how. Ruth tossed him a line. "What are your angel dreams like?"

"They're—" Nathan stopped then shook his head at her with fond exasperation, so she stuck her tongue out at him, the way they used to do. That got a laugh, but then he got serious. "It's the same dream, every time. There's just one angel, and he's circling above me, around and around, like he's watching over me."

Ruth shuddered, remembering her childhood terror of the vultures who circled above road kill. She'd refused to go out in the open, certain they were after her. But that had been silly. "That's what angels do, isn't it?" Ruth asked, playing—well, it wasn't devil's advocate … Angel's advocate? Whatever. "Angels watch over us; that's what they say."

"Like our 'garden angel' from when we were four," Nathan agreed.

"When did the dreams start?" she asked.

"A month ago, I guess."

"Do you think our 'garden angel' is the one in your dreams?"

"I have no idea," he answered. "All I can see are wings." Then Nathan and she shared a shrug, because there wasn't much else to say and there wasn't anything they could do. "How are Mom and Dad?" he asked.

"Fine. Almost settled into the new house in Madelia, though I think Dad misses his workshop back in Blue Earth. All he has now is the basement. And Mom is finally done rearranging the furniture. I hope."

"Almost makes me glad I'm not there," Nathan said, because Mom's "rearranging" was legendary.

They talked a while, of the crazy weather in different places, of a movie he had seen and how the World Series was going, but Nathan was yawning, and Ruth knew how rare and precious sack time was. "You take care," she said, and they each reached out a hand to the screen, trying to touch each other. Ruth said softly, "Semper Fi," because that belonged to two of them now, as well as to the Corps, and it had always and would always be true.

"Semper Fi," he answered, with a sweet smile and a serious nod, and then his hand came forward and he disappeared from the screen.

* * *

><p>He called at Christmas, too, when Ruth was back with their folks, but mostly they sent emails back and forth. It was easier with the time zones. On New Year's Day, she drove her new Corvette (twenty years old, actually, but a Christmas gift from her Aunt Jen, so it was new to Ruth) back to Ohio, and on Monday she was back at her boring job.<p>

Early in February, Ruth packed up a couple of boxes of cookies and food and mailed them to Nathan and to her old unit, even though a lot of the people she remembered had moved on. On St. Valentine's Day, Dad sent her flowers as usual. Nathan sent her an e-card with blooming flowers and caterpillars dancing to Lady Gaga's song_ Bad Romance_. She laughed for a while then printed a screen capture and opened her shoe box of mementos.

The necklace Eli had given her lay on top, a crystal star of many points upon a black silk string, still neatly coiled in its little red box. Ruth gently touched the box's clear plastic cover, but she didn't open it this year. She put Dad's card from the flowers and the computer print-out of the caterpillars in the shoebox, covering everything below. Then she set the lid back on and stored the shoebox in the closet.

Nathan called two days after St. Valentine's Day, right after she got home from work. "Happy birthday!"

"Happy birthday," she told her twin. He looked tired and his eyes were haunted, so she didn't make jokes about his appearance today. "You ok?" He shrugged, so she persisted, "Bad dreams? Angel dreams?"

"What? Oh. No."

"Me, either," she said, reassured.

"Someone did send an angel-food cake in a care package. It was so stale we used it like a soccer ball."

"Good use for it," Ruth said. She didn't like angel-food cake even when it was fresh.

"Hey, thanks for sending the peanut-butter cookies," he said next.

"You're welcome," she said. They'd been his favorite since he was five. "Thank you for the e-card. But really: caterpillars and Lady Gaga?"

"Did you laugh?"

"Well, yeah." She'd had to. It was utterly ridiculous.

"Good," he said, and his smile was totally satisfied. But it didn't last long. "I'm going on a mission soon, Ruth. Black ops."

She knew better than to ask for details. "Serious, huh?"

He nodded, his face grim. "It could change the whole war, even the whole world."

All Ruth could manage was: "Wow. How do you rate?"

He grinned at her, lightning quick and cute, what her high-school friend Lisa had referred to as his Tom-Cruise-smile, before saying, "My good looks and boyish charm."

"Right," Ruth said with a snort.

Nathan was serious again. "I won't be in touch for a while. So tell Mom and Dad if they ask, but don't worry, ok?"

She would always worry about him. But he knew that, and he didn't need to hear it, not now. "Semper Fi," she said, putting her hand to the screen.

He did the same, their fingers matching up even though they couldn't touch each other at all. "Semper Fi."

* * *

><p>Two weeks later, Mom called her at work and said, "Nathan's missing."<p>

Ruth couldn't even swallow, and her stomach felt like lead. "Missing in action?" Going MIA in Iraq usually meant kidnapping, torture, and death, often by beheading.

"No, missing from his squadron."

Ruth closed her eyes as relief flooded through her, and she managed to breathe.

"A captain called us, looking for him," Mom went on. "The captain said Nathan was late coming back from his leave."

"Nathan would never do that," Ruth said flatly. "And he wasn't on leave."

"Yes, he was," Mom contradicted. "He had a ten-day pass and he got on a plane to Germany on February seventeenth. But no one has seen him since."

Ruth's dread was uncoiling into a tangled knot of confusion and concern. Maybe the leave had been a cover story for the black op? But if it was running late, they should have at least told Nathan's CO. "I'll ask around," Ruth said, and she left work early to make phone calls to friends and write emails to officials, trying to track Nathan down. She called in "sick" the next day so she could be by the phone.

Around sunset, she went for a walk to get some fresh air. As far as she could tell, she'd been the last person Nathan had spoken to before he disappeared, and she had absolutely no idea where he'd gone. Nobody else had heard about any black op, and even though Nathan's CO had told her he'd ask about it, he'd made it clear he thought Nathan had made it all up. Mom and Dad were freaking out, and the captain was starting to ask questions about Nathan's drug use, black market connections, romantic involvements, and whether or not he was gay.

Ruth went to work at Sandover the next morning and asked for indefinite leave. They said no, so she quit and walked out the door. She tossed her personal stuff in her Corvette, mailed some things to her folks' house, and abandoned the rest. Then she hit the road for home. She got to her parents' house in the middle of the night, and they talked until dawn, trying to comfort each other as best they could. Their best wasn't very good.

The next day wasn't any better. She was about to book a flight to Germany when the police called. Nathan had been found in Detroit, wandering the streets in a daze.

"Thank God he's alive," Mom said with tears on her cheeks.

That's what they all thought. Then.

* * *

><p><strong>Next: Michael gives a performance review<strong>


	5. So Long to Devotion

**So Long to Devotion**

* * *

><p><strong>The Garrison of Heaven<strong>

* * *

><p>The angels known to humans as "cupids" huddle together and cower, their wings covering their eyes, their flames barely glimmers. Yet there is nowhere to hide in heaven's clear skies.<p>

"The vessel was flawed," Michael informs them. Each word is precise and sharp as a ruby's edge.

"Archangel, that bloodline is clear," the angel named Anahita protests. "All was done properly. I prepared that vessel for your presence myself."

Anahita explodes, touched by an angel of highest degree. Those nearby whimper in pain, caught by the blast of Michael's rage. They gag on the stench of charred feathers and the taste of boiled blood. They separate from each other, still cowering, but Michael has already turned away.

Michael calls for Zachariah, and the cherub answers immediately, faithful as always, eager to obey. The beak of its eagle face is slightly open; the eyes of its human face gleam. "Break Dean Winchester," Michael orders Zachariah. "Turn him into a willing vessel. Soon."

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, 7 March 2010, Queen of Peace Hospital, Minnesota<strong>

* * *

><p>Ruth sat at her brother's bedside at the hospital, hoping for some sign of consciousness, of recognition, of anything, but his hand was limp in hers and his face was slack and empty. A thin line of drool had run from the corner of his mouth to his chin.<p>

As she stood and wiped his face with a tissue, someone knocked on the door. "Mr. Lukas!" she said in surprise. Ruth hadn't seen the old caretaker from St. Peter's in years. Mr. Lukas didn't look any different from what she remembered from back then: same uncombed hair, same crinkles around the eyes. Even his green jacket looked the same.

"I heard what happened to Nathan," Mr. Lukas said as he came into the room. "Thought I'd stop by."

Ruth nodded stiffly, appreciating the visit even as she was wishing Mr. Lukas hadn't come. She hated for other people to see Nathan like this, so helpless, so broken. Either they looked horrified and repulsed or they put on the sympathetic "such a pity" face.

But all Mr. Lukas did was to lay a light hand, just the tips of his fingers, really, on Nathan's forehead and close his eyes for a moment, as if he were praying. Then he stepped back and looked at her to say, "I'm sorry."

Ruth nodded again. "The doctors don't know— They say…" She took a deep breath then motioned to the pair of chairs by the window, and she and Mr. Lukas sat down. "Mom said you moved to Ohio a few years ago?" Ruth said, because she wasn't ready to talk about Nathan, not right now.

"Yes, I got a job at a university there, but I moved to Florida after a year or so. After Minnesota, I wanted someplace warm," Mr. Lukas said with a little smile that disappeared when he added, "After Father Murphy was killed… well, I couldn't stay."

"I still can't believe he was murdered like that," Ruth said. Her mom had sent her the newspaper clippings. "In his own church."

"Holy Ground isn't what it used to be," Mr. Lukas said. He tilted his head as he looked her over, the way grownups do to kids. "Seems like you two were in the Christmas pageant only a year ago, instead of twenty," he said. "You made a good Mary, and Nate played Gabriel well. But I guess he goes by Nathan now?"

"Since he was twelve." It had taken her two years to learn to call him by his grownup name. "You know, he really appreciated you helping him learn his lines," Ruth told Mr. Lukas, surprised to find herself smiling at the memory. She felt as if she hadn't smiled in weeks.

"No problem," Mr. Lukas said. "I learned those lines a long time ago."

The Christmas pageant was a tradition at St. Peter's, Ruth knew. Mr. Lukas had probably helped a lot of kids over the years.

"How did Nathan end up in Detroit?" Mr. Lukas asked.

"We have no idea. He could have frozen that night. His feet were a mess. They amputated two toes. He hasn't spoken at all." She bit into her lower lip before she whispered, "They say he may never wake up again."

Mr. Lukas patted the back of her hand, and she gripped his hand tightly with her own. "Have you been praying?" Mr. Lukas asked quietly. "Going to Mass?" When Ruth shook her head, he said, "You know, Father Murphy always recommended people with troubles go every day. And I happen to know there's a Mass at one o'clock at St. Jude's."

"It is Sunday," Ruth said, blearily counting back the days. "I should go."

"You should. I'll stay here with Nathan," Mr. Lukas offered.

"Thank you." Ruth drew a shaky breath as she stood.

"What's your brother's confirmation name?" Mr. Lukas asked her as she put on her coat.

"Michael." Nathan had taken their garden angel's name.

"You should pray to St. Michael then. And to your patron saint, too."

"That's Mary, the Mother of God," Ruth replied. "I always pray to her."

"Why, so do I." His eyes crinkled in a smile. "Hurry now."

So Ruth hurried to Mass and found that Mr. Lukas and Father Murphy were right. It was comforting, to say the prayers and sing the songs she knew so well, and to receive the body and blood of the Savior. She stayed afterwards to pray to St. Michael the Archangel and the Holy Mother, then went back to the hospital, feeling better, even stronger somehow.

Mr. Lukas kissed her on the forehead before he left, and as she sat in the chair next to Nathan that afternoon, Ruth dreamed.

* * *

><p>An angel wheels above her, silent and serene. The sand is warm under her feet, the air is cool, and the sun hangs high in the sky. She watches the angel, white wings gleaming in the sunshine, then sees its shadow ripple over her bare skin. She is unclothed, and she is unashamed. When she looks up again, the angel is gone.<p>

But now it stands beside her, the great wings furled and gleaming. A thousand eyes of silver flame shimmer as it gazes upon her, a thousand tongues of red fire flicker as it eats the air, as it licks the salt from her skin.

It knows her now. It has tasted her.

Ruth licks her lips and tastes cinnamon, bitter and dusty and dry. She knows this angel from the garden long ago. She has tasted it. This is the angel she had summoned with her prayers. She calls it now by name: "Michael!" and the ancient words flow out across the sands: Who is like the Lord.

The angel answers with silence, for nothing is like God. "Ruth," it names her, a ripple down her spine, a word that means friend.

"My brother is wounded," she tells Michael. "His spirit has fled."

"It is not a sundering of soul." The angel's words are felt more than heard, thrumming along her bones. "Rather, his soul is spread too thin. His vessel was flawed. It could not contain me, and now it cannot contain him."

"Contain you?" she repeats, the words stumbling stupidly in her mouth.

"I asked him for the use of his body, to help me win a war. He was my vessel on the earth."

Ruth shakes her head, and the silk tips of her hair dance across her shoulders, surprising her with softness, softness that is wrong in this place of sand and sky. "He said he had not dreamed of angels."

"I told him to keep it from you."

"You made him lie?" she demands, outrage flaring hot and liquid through her veins. "To me?"

"His choice was his own," the angel says. "As all human choices are." In a shudder of wings, a thousand red tongues lick a thousand silver eyes. "God has decreed it must be so." The angel is still again, perfectly contained. "His gift to you."

"And Nathan agreed to be your vessel?" she asks, trying to understand.

"Yes." The word whips away in the wind. "He said yes to me. Of his own free will."

"Then heal him," she pleads, her arms spread wide, her hands open, empty, waiting. "Fix the vessel of his soul." The angel is silent, still and serene. "Please," she whispers, dropping to her knees. "Michael, for the love of God…"

"I do _everything_ for the love of God," it tells her, its gaze as blank and pitiless as the sun, a thousand-yard stare from a thousand lidless eyes. "Not for love of you."

Ruth rises to her feet, shaking with rage at this brutal betrayal. "He served you. You owe him!"

"He was a weapon, one of many," the angel says, and it is already turned to the sky, away from her. "And I am still fighting a war."

That last word has a life—and a death—of its own. War slithers through the sand, a hiss of pain. War climbs the distant hills, a scrape across the skin. War screams across the sky, a rip within the mind.

With a rush of mighty wings, Michael is gone, and Ruth shivers with sudden cold.

Above her, the blue sky is empty. The sun hangs just above the mountains, a sullen disc of burnished bronze, and the wind tastes of cinnamon and dust and war.

* * *

><p>Ruth woke, her heart pounding with fear and with rage, not sure what it meant, but definitely sure of one thing.<p>

She was going to kill that bastard Michael.

* * *

><p><strong>Next: Sam and Dean on a road trip<strong>


	6. Crossroads

**Crossroads**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Thursday, 11 March 2010, On the Road<strong>_

* * *

><p>"We need to go to Des Moines," Sam told Dean without looking up from his laptop.<p>

Dean was packed before Sam had even closed all the computer windows and powered down. Dean was sick of getting nowhere, of not knowing where to go or what to do or how to stop the coming juggernaut of an apocalypse or how to get the damned angels out of his life. He was ready to move, and he didn't care much where. So it wasn't until they were in the Impala and cruising on a highway toward Iowa that Dean asked, "What's in Des Moines?"

"A library collection on apocalyptic literature."

"Say that three times fast," Dean challenged then tried to do it himself. "Apacolyptic, apopalyptic, apoptalittic… You try it."

"A pop tart," Sam replied.

That ended the game but reminded Dean that breakfast had been a while ago. They weren't going to make Des Moines until after dark, and the library books would have to wait until morning. Dean eased the speed up to eighty, the tires humming sweetly on the road.

It was nearly seven o'clock when they got into town. They found a room at a motel then went looking for dinner, ending up a bar and grill with a sign that advertised "Best Steak Sandwiches in Town!" They weren't the best Dean had ever had, but they were pretty damn good, with mushrooms and cheese and grilled onions on thin-sliced steak piled high. Sam had ordered a salad and a grilled chicken breast with steamed vegetables on the side.

Sam caught Dean looking at his plate and said, "Let me guess: fries are better than vegetables."

"Fries are vegetables," Dean replied but then shrugged. They usually gave each other a hard time about their food choices, but what was the point of that anymore? "Eat what you like," Dean said sincerely. "I'm going to." He took a bite of his steak sandwich and chewed with his eyes closed, enjoying his dinner.

While his eyes were open, he enjoyed the scenery. Their booth was close to the restrooms, and woman after woman walked by their table. Usually, he would have done more than look, especially with that girl in the tight red sweater, but somehow, after all the fighting and dying he'd done lately, he wasn't in the mood.

But on the other hand, he wasn't dead, either. Not yet. So when he saw a tall, slender brunette pick up the darts for a solo game, he strolled over—then walked right past her and into the john. Being _too _obvious spooked the game. On his way out, he stopped to watch her throw a dart into the double ring of the nine. "Playing around the clock?" he asked, for darts were also stuck in the six, the seven, and the eight. She gave him a quick glance, nodded, then threw a ten with a smooth easy flick of her left hand.

Which, Dean noticed, did not have a wedding ring. She wasn't wearing any jewelry, at least none he could see. Her clothes—black boots, blue jeans, and a green knitted sweater over a black turtleneck— covered most of her, which was sensible this far north at this time of year. She looked serious as well as sensible, even stern, like a teacher or a librarian (Sam's kind of librarian), though her hair was in a plain ponytail instead of a bun. Even with a ponytail, she wasn't cute or perky, her jaw was too strong and her nose was too long, but she was still good to look at. She moved nice, too, all smooth and easy. A greyhound, Dean decided: graceful and lean.

"Care for a game?" he suggested, and after another glance at him, longer this time, she nodded.

They played silently, intently, and after three turns Dean was behind. He stopped trying to lose, his usual approach when he was playing for the girl instead of the game. This girl still beat him. "Two out of three?" Dean asked, and she nodded again. She beat him that time, too, and he'd been playing to win the whole time.

"Nice game," Sam said to her, for of course he'd come over to watch. He raised his eyebrows at Dean.

"Yeah, nice game," Dean agreed and gave her a cheerful smile, but got only a very quick one in return.

"Thanks," she said then explained, "We had a dart board in the basement when I was growing up. We'd play every night after dinner."

"Never had that kind of practice time," Dean said. Never had a basement, either, or a family dinner every night. This past year and a half, he'd barely had time to eat, what with the angels flinging him all over creation (both time and space), and two of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse riding into town. Not to mention Jo and Ellen getting killed in January, and the dead coming back to life in Bobby's hometown in February (courtesy of Horseman #4), or him and Sam getting killed and being forcibly given a tour of heaven last week.

"Care for a game with me?" Sam was asking Dart Girl with one of his adorable puppy smiles, and she smiled back—a real smile—and said yes.

While they were playing, the waitress came to the table with the bill. "Figures," Dean sighed. "He gets the chick, and I get the check." But it was worth it, because she beat Sam, too. Twice. And she left the steakhouse without even giving him her name.

Dean almost felt like whistling as they drove back to motel. As they were getting into bed, he asked, "Did you let her win?"

Sam peered at him blearily from the other bed. "What do you think?" Then he thumped his pillow and rolled over, turning his back to Dean and the light.

Dean clicked the light switch then thumped his own pillow, hard, before going to sleep.

* * *

><p>Sam and Dean got to the library at 9:06 the next morning and went to the special collections room on the third floor to ask for the book. The woman behind the desk was another one of Sam's kind of librarian, and she was wearing actual horn-rimmed glasses and a cardigan sweater over her button-down shirt and sensible skirt. Her nametag read "Reference Librarian - Karen Johnson", and her only jewelry was a gold wedding band. "I'm sorry," she told Sam. "That book is currently out."<p>

"It's a reference book," Sam said, now using his "I'm just a cute confused puppy; please help me" smile. "It doesn't circulate."

"Yes, but another patron is looking at it now."

"Already?" Dean asked. "You just opened."

Mrs. Johnson turned her head to look at the clock on the wall then looked back at him. "We opened at nine," she informed him. "Seven minutes ago." Then she turned to Sam. "I'll let you know when it comes back."

"Thank you," Sam said then pulled out a piece of paper from his back pocket asked for another book on his list.

She checked her computer. "Yes, that one is available, and I'll bring it to you. You must stay in this room while looking at these books. There's a study carrel over there you can use." She looked back and forth between the two of them. "There is to be no talking." She left her desk with a set of keys in her hand.

"Now what?" Dean asked.

"You could go read something else," Sam suggested, and he went to the study carrel to wait for Mrs. Johnson to return.

Dean went downstairs to the graphic novels section, hoping to pick up something fun to read. What he found were tales about vampires, werewolves, Lucifer giving away the keys to hell, monsters, mutants, and tortured superheroes trying to save the world. "Screw this," Dean muttered and went straight to the nonfiction section 662. He settled down in a beanbag chair to relax and read about blowing things up.

* * *

><p>Sam finally got the book he wanted a little after ten o'clock, and he spent the next hour or so translating its Latin and taking careful note of its illustrations. It was good information, but nothing really new, and he finished with a frustrated sigh. Then he checked the appendix, and sure enough, the author had a list of references. Sam made a copy of the reference page then carried the book over to Mrs. Johnson to ask for her help.<p>

"Of course," she said cheerfully and started humming as she typed in search terms. Sam waited respectfully; he knew that reference librarians lived for the hunt. After a few moments she looked up. "These three," she said, pointing on the page, "are in the Vatican, and they're recently been placed online. This one has yet to be digitized, but it's in Rochester."

"Rochester, New York?"

"Rochester, Minnesota. It's about three and a half hours away."

Sam nodded. It would be less than three hours, the way Dean drove. "Who has it?"

"The library at Crossroads University. It's part of their collection of biblical apocrypha."

Sam blinked at the name but just smiled and said, "Thank you so much, Mrs. Johnson. You've been a great help," and she smiled back and said she was glad to be of service.

Sam checked the online references from the Vatican but didn't find much useful there, either. It was road trip time. He found Dean on the ground floor, reading about explosives. "Let's go," Sam said, and Dean left the book on a table. "We're going to Rochester," Sam said as they headed for the door.

"New York?"

"Minnesota."

"Let's go," Dean said, and they got in their car. The landscape on Interstate 35 was monotonously familiar, empty fields with traces of snow, barns and houses, and the occasional stand of leafless trees. Around noon they stopped for gas and food. As they were waiting to pull out of the restaurant parking lot, Sam saw a brunette with her hair in a ponytail drive by in a powder-blue 1989 Corvette, and he turned to get a better look.

"Is she hot?" Dean asked, swiveling his head to see, but the Corvette had already gone to a gas station down the street.

"I think it was the girl from last night."

"Was she following us?" Dean demanded.

"Maybe," Sam said then added, "Or trying to."

"Let's find out," Dean said, and he got on the interstate, holding the speedometer steady just under sixty-five. About twenty minutes later, the Corvette appeared in their rear view mirror. Dean sped up, then pulled off the interstate. They watched from an overpass as her car drove on by. She didn't come back looking for them. Dean looked at Sam and asked, "Coincidence?"

"This is the only interstate north out of Des Moines," Sam pointed out, and then they both shrugged. They got back on the road and drove for an hour, until Dean called for a pit stop. At the rest area, a powder-blue Corvette was parked on the other side of the building.

"Coincidence," Dean said darkly.

"This is the only rest area for fifty miles," Sam said. "The minivan full of kids has been on the road with us the whole time, too."

"Yeah, and so has that pickup truck with a coat hanger for an antenna," Dean said. "I guess." They took care of business then got back in their car. The Corvette was gone. "I wonder if she thinks we're following her," Dean said as he put the car in reverse.

Sam shook his head. "She's probably not as paranoid as we are."

"Lucky her," Dean muttered and pulled back onto the road. Sam closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

They got to the university at twenty to four. "The place closes at four on Fridays," Dean said, reading the sign on the door as he yanked open the library door. "Hope you read fast."

"We can make copies," Sam said. The special collections room was on the second floor, but when they got to the top of the stairs Dean started swearing, because below them, coming in the library door, was that same slim brunette with the ponytail. "Dart Girl followed us here," Dean said in quiet outrage as they walked quickly to the reference desk.

"Not on the road," Sam protested. "We would have seen her."

"That means she knew exactly where we were going," Dean said grimly.

"Or she's looking for the same thing we are," Sam said. "I bet she's the one who had the book this morning."

"Yeah, well, this time it's our turn to go first," Dean said then turned to smile triumphantly at Dart Girl when she arrived at the top of the stairs, leaving Sam to talk to the librarian.

Dart Girl checked her stride when she saw them then came forward anyway, her eyes wary but determined. "Are you following me?" she asked in a library-quiet but very intense voice when she got closer.

"We got here first," Dean pointed out.

"You were watching me from the overpass," she shot back. "Then you followed me to the rest stop."

This girl was just as paranoid as they were. Sam felt oddly reassured. "We didn't even know you were at the rest stop," he told her.

"And we thought you were following us," Dean put in.

Her eyebrows went up in surprise just as Sam said, "But I think we were both following this." He held up the binder the librarian had just given him, and Dart Girl tracked it, her brown eyes as intent and determined as any predator when its prey is in sight. "Why?" Sam asked.

"I'm researching a story," she said. "For a book."

Sam almost smiled, because that was one of his and Dean's usual cover stories; people expected reporters and authors to be nosy and ask a lot of questions.

Dean clearly wasn't buying it, either. He snorted and told her, "You're a lousy liar."

Dart Girl looked him over, looked right _through_ him. "And you take pride in being good at lying."

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice getting louder, causing heads to turn. "I do."

The reference librarian was staring at them with narrowed eyes, and the library would be closing soon. "Come on," Sam said to Dean and the girl, and they went into one of the study rooms with glass windows. Sam shut the door. "Look," he said to the girl, trying to calm everyone down, "we're just—"

"What do you want with these books?" Dean broke in.

She looked straight at him, cool and calm, and announced: "I want to learn how to kill an angel."

* * *

><p><strong>Next: Dart Boy buys Dart Girl a beer<br>**


	7. Looking for the Answer

**Looking for the Answer**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Friday, 12 March 2010, Rochester, Minnesota<strong>_

* * *

><p>As soon as Ruth said she wanted to kill an angel, she got what she was looking for: the two young men were intensely interested (even if they did try to hide it), not horrified or surprised or bored, which meant that they really were just walking the same trail as she was, and not trailing her. She relaxed, but only a little, because she was getting the distinct impression that Dart-Boy and Hippy-Puppy could follow most any trail … and kill most of what bothered them.<p>

So could she, thanks to her Uncle Pete, Sensei Yukari, and Staff Sergeant Zimsky, but she didn't want these two guys trying to kill her. Or getting in her way. She needed to neutralize the opposition.

"Kill an angel," Dart-Boy repeated flatly then glanced at his taller companion, quirked an eyebrow, and said, "Huh." Then he started to study her. Ruth opted for the "you're cute but I don't have time for you right now" look then turned her attention to the guy with the way-too-long hair, because he was the one with the book.

Hippy-Puppy ran a hand through that hair, his hazel eyes narrowed a little and his brow furrowed in confusion, and asked, "Um … why? I mean, aren't angels the good guys?"

"Not in my story," Ruth said. In her story, angels were slaughtering each other. She did not like her story. But then, she wasn't the one making it up. She just saw it in her dreams.

"Huh." This time it was Hippy-Puppy saying it. He looked her over, just like Dart-Boy was still doing, then shifted the binder to his left hand and held out his right hand for her to shake, saying, "I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother, Dean."

Being a leftie, Ruth had never liked shaking hands. and it was even worse now, ever since her arm had taken that hit. She shook his hand just once and dropped it but tried to make up for it with a pleasant smile along with her name. "I'm Ruth Halston."

Hippy-Puppy—Sam, she should call him now—pulled out his chair, and they all three sat down. Dean (formerly Dart-Boy) straddled the chair at the end of the table and asked, "So what is your story?"

"It's too long to tell now," she said, adding another smile. "The library closes at four, and special collections isn't open on weekends."

"I'll make copies," Dean volunteered then snatched the binder from Sam and walked out. Then Dean stuck his head back in the room and said, "You two young folk get acquainted now." He winked at his brother and shut the door again. Sam sighed and ground his teeth a little in irritation, but didn't complain.

Ruth recognized sibling teasing all too well. "How much older is your brother?"

"Four years," Sam said and ran a hand through his hair again. "You have a brother?"

"Yes."

He gave her a rueful grin and asked: "Older or younger?"

"Older. But only by fourteen minutes." Her brother, Nathan, was why she was here. Obviously, Sam and Dean had a different reason. "Why do you want to read these books?"

Sam almost smiled, the way she had seen him do a couple times before, and he said, "It's a long story." Then he added, "Like yours."

Those words were sharp and serious, and again, Ruth caught the impression of a determined and dangerous man. He moved with a deceptively loose and gangly walk, like a puppy who hadn't quite grown into his feet, but Ruth had watched him last night at the dart game, and the strength and control in his upper body were clear even under the loose plaid flannel shirt he wore. She didn't feel like "getting acquainted" so she said nothing. Sam just sat there, too.

After a few minutes Sam said, "Let's go," and stood up and shoved back his chair. "Dean's probably done."

Dean was done. In fact, he had already given the binder back to the librarian, who had locked it away and gone home. Ruth held out her hand for her copy, but Dean shook his head with a smile, saying, "After we get your story."

Ruth breathed out slowly through her nose to stop herself from snarling at him in frustration or smacking him in righteous rage. She could tell him to pound sand. She could wait until Monday and get the binder from the librarian then. But time was running out, and these two might know something she could use. Intelligence won wars, and it was way cheaper than blood.

So she smiled and said, "All right" then followed their old black car to a pool hall in town. The place served cheap beer and stale popcorn and was more crowded than she liked—Sam got bumped from behind and splashed some water on her as they maneuvered their way back from the restrooms—but at least the music and the talking were loud enough so that they wouldn't be overheard.

Ruth slid into the corner booth, facing the guys. "So," Dean began, pouring them each a beer out of a plastic pitcher into clear plastic cups, "what's your story?"

An angel spoke to me when I was four years old, in our garden near the birdfeeder. I used to think it lived there. It came and went with the sound of mighty wings and a rush of cold air that tasted of cinnamon, sweet to smell yet bitter and dusty on the tongue. All my life, I thought it was our own guardian angel, watching over my brother and me. I thought it would protect us.

I was wrong.

Ruth didn't say any of that. It sounded crazy. "In the story," she told Sam and Dean, "an angel visits a young boy and watches over him. When the boy is grown, the angel asks him for help, and the boy agrees. But the angel betrays and abandons him. The boy realizes the angel is not a true agent of the Lord and decides to stop it."

"By killing it," Sam prompted.

"Perhaps," Ruth said. "I'm not sure how the plot will turn out. But right now, that's the boy's plan." She took a sip of her beer then wished she hadn't. It wasn't very good.

"This angel isn't, by any chance, named Zachariah, is it?" Dean asked.

"No, its name is Michael," she said.

"As in: Michael the archangel?" Sam asked.

"Yes."

Dean leaned toward her across the sticky table and demanded, "Have you seen him?"

"Dean—," Sam said in quick warning, even as Dean leaned back, pretending he didn't care.

But he did care. Ruth could tell. "This is an angel we're talking about," she reminded them. "In a story." She leaned back slightly herself, the better to see both Dean and Sam as she asked, "Have you ever seen an angel?"

Sam just sat there and looked confused. Dean's quick smile was cheerful—and very fake. He wasn't lying very well now. "Like you said," Dean replied, lifting his beer in a toast, "we're talking about angels."

They were indeed. For the last year and a half, angels had haunted her dreams. Lately she had begun to wonder if they had been haunting her and Nathan all their lives. Or maybe hunting was a better word. Well, right now Ruth was hunting that bastard Michael, and the trail had led her to this crowded, noisy pool hall with two very interesting men. And these Winchester brothers knew something; she could tell.

"Angels smell of cinnamon," Ruth volunteered, for you have to give in order to get, and suddenly both Sam and Dean went very still. "And when they leave, you can hear the rush of air from mighty wings."

Sam leaned in, his hair falling forward over his eyes, to say, "The space is cold where they have stood."

The three of them sat there, looking at each other, slowly letting go of the camouflage of lies, until Sam asked softly: "Is this about your brother?"

Ruth nodded, and Dean sucked in a breath of air before he asked, "What kind of 'help' did Michael need?"

"He asked my brother to help him win a war," she answered. "And my brother said yes." Sam and Dean exchanged glances, and Ruth could feel tears starting in her eyes.

She quickly ducked her head and took another sip of beer. After a moment she looked up to report: "That was last month, on February sixteenth. A week ago they found Nathan wandering the streets in Detroit, not knowing who he was. The doctors looked for head trauma. Then they starting testing him for drugs. There's nothing physically wrong with him," she said. "He's just…" She stopped, determined not to cry.

"He's just not there," Sam supplied, and Ruth found herself looking into his eyes and not really minding if he saw her tears.

"Mind frickers," Dean swore then swallowed half his beer. He put the cup down and looked at her, his head tilted to one side. "So that plan is yours. You're going to kill Michael for revenge."

"Not revenge," Ruth denied. Well, not only revenge. "I want to stop him before he does it again."

"Think he will?" asked Sam.

"I know he's going to try," she replied.

"So you have seen him," Sam said, zeroing in on her words just like a lawyer on TV.

Ruth didn't respond to that. She had done enough talking. It was their turn. "Have you ever seen an angel?" she repeated.

"Oh, yeah," Dean said, snarling the words as if they were a curse. He added, "They're basically dicks with wings." He stared into his beer cup. "Even the girl angels."

"But you haven't seen Michael," she noted, because otherwise he wouldn't have been that curious.

"Only once, back … a while ago. He usually sends his minion, Zachariah. And anyway, what we see isn't an angel's true form. They use humans as vessels when they're on Earth, only the humans have to say yes first."

Like Nathan had said yes, being honorable and devout and brave. Yet: "Flawed," the angel had called him. It had found her brother flawed and left him broken, and then just disappeared. That was one angel, Ruth thought again, that she really wanted to watch die.

"I've never seen Zachariah either, not really," Dean was saying. "Seeing a real angel will burn out your eyes and make your ears bleed." He added in an undertone, "And crap your pants."

Ruth was beginning to like Dean better. That last remark reminded her of Staff Sergeant Zimsky, who had a habit of saying things that were bluntly crude, always true, and useful to know. "What can you tell me about this war Michael wants to win?"

"Oh, it's just the apocalypse," Dean said with a casual wave of his hand. "The end of the world. Preceded by the four perilous ponies—War, Famine, Plague, and Death—and followed by a rain of blood and a torrent of frogs."

"The frogs happened with Moses," Sam corrected. "The Book of Revelation has locusts."

"Whatever," Dean said, with another wave of his hand. "It ends with Lucifer and Michael fighting a battle to the death, destroying half our planet in the process. But to come to Earth, they need vessels. Humans."

"Oh," she said softly, finally seeing what Nathan had meant when he'd said his covert op could change the world. Ruth looked back and forth between Sam and Dean before guessing, "So which one of you does Michael want as a vessel?"

Dean raised his hand, cleared his throat, and announced, "That would be me."

"Huh," Ruth said in surprise. He didn't strike her as the angelic type. But it didn't matter. "And you said no," she guessed again.

"Damn straight I said no! A couple of times. But angels are persistent buggers."

"Like drunk guys in a bar," Ruth observed.

"Yeah, except for the whole 'breaking your legs' or 'ripping out your lungs' or 'making you puke your stomach out in bloody scraps' part when you turn them down," Dean said.

Ruth grimaced, remembering a Marine who'd been trying to breathe with half his chest ripped open and a piece of his lung in his hands.

"Like he said," Sam explained, "angels are persistent." Then he turned to Dean. "Maybe Michael got tired of waiting? So he tried Ruth's brother instead of you, only it didn't last very long."

Ruth knew that meant Nathan hadn't lasted very long. He was flawed. Used up. Tossed away. Dying in a hospital bed, day by day. Ruth was done telling her story; she needed intel, fast. "How do you kill an angel?"

Sam shook his head. "You don't. Only other angels can."

"A circle of burning holy oil will trap them," Dean offered. "The fire can kill them, but only when they're in a vessel. You can't even touch them unless they're in a vessel."

Not good enough. Maybe the ancient writings would have more, maybe even how to find one of those silver knives she'd seen the angel use in her dream. "Thanks for the beer and the info," Ruth said to Dean and Sam. "I'd like my copy now."

"Sure," he said. "It's still in the car." He dropped some cash on the table, and they went to the parking lot. "Here you go," he said, handing her some papers. Then he smiled, not in a particularly nice way."Good luck with that. It's in Latin."

Ruth wasn't surprised. The book this morning had been in Latin too, and she had her dictionaries in the car. She nodded and took the papers and started to walk away.

Sam caught up to her at her car. "You can translate Latin?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Want to work with me? We could be done in half the time, and check each other's translations." When she hesitated he added, "I'll show you what I translated this morning in Des Moines."

He looked like a puppy bringing her a stick to throw, hopeful and eager, only without the wagging tail. And having a partner would definitely help. She wasn't sure about some of the words. "All right," Ruth agreed then said something she had never said to a guy before, and would definitely not have said to Dean: "Let's go find a hotel room."

* * *

><p><strong>Next: A Friday night in a hotel with Sam and Dean<strong>


	8. Angelicide 101

**Angelicide 101**

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><p><em><strong>Friday, 12 March 2010, Rochester, Minnesota<strong>_

* * *

><p>They checked into a hotel not far from the pool hall. Sam and Dean got a room next to Ruth's, and then Dean offered to bring back food. "Chinese ok?" Dean asked.<p>

"Great," Ruth said, handing him a twenty. "Anything Szechuan's good; I like spicy. And if they've got it, I like Kirin beer."

Dean opened his mouth, probably to make some smart-ass suggestive comment about him liking "hot and spicy" too, but Sam cut in with, "Moo shu pork for me, ok?" before his brother could say something stupid and tick her off.

"Got it," Dean said, with the wrinkle of the nose that let Sam know Dean knew exactly why Sam had spoken up when he did. Then he checked out Ruth's backside and winked at Sam on his way out, shutting the door vigorously enough to call it a slam.

"Ready to translate?" Ruth asked, looking up. She had three different Latin books, a pad of paper, sharpened pencils, and the documents all neatly laid out on the table. A laptop was ready nearby.

"Sure," Sam said, plugging in the battery for his laptop.. "How do you know Latin?" he asked as his laptop beeped and whirred.

"Twelve years of Catholic school. You?"

"I was pre-law in college, and ancient lore is kind of hobby for me." Sam wasn't in the mood to discuss the life of a hunter with her; angels and the apocalypse were enough. They each took a dictionary and got to work. They'd just finished deciding a word was in the ablative case and not the accusative when Dean arrived with the food.

He took one look at the array of papers spread out on the bed and the table then declared: "We are eating in the other room." Sam and Ruth followed him next door. There were only two chairs, so Sam pulled the little round table over to the bed. Ruth sat on the bed, cross-legged, and Sam and Dean took the chairs. "So, what do you see when you dream of angels?" Dean asked her, dipping his egg roll into gooey red sauce.

Ruth expertly used a pair of chopsticks—with her left hand—to pick up a piece of chicken. "Usually, I get to watch them die." She popped the meat into her mouth and chewed.

"If you already know how to kill them," Sam asked, "why did you ask us and why do you need these old writings?"

She paused with her hand around the neck of her beer bottle and answered, "Because I can't wave my hand and explode an angel into little bloody shreds."

Sam winced, remembering how Castiel had died last summer. They'd found one of his teeth in Chuck's hair. Castiel had thought God had brought him back to life, and last week in the garden of Heaven, the angel Joshua had said that was true, but Joshua had also said that God did not think it was his place "to interfere" and Raphael had said that Lucifer had brought Castiel back, so Sam wasn't sure what to believe.

Castiel wasn't sure, either, not anymore. When they told Cas that Joshua said God wasn't going to help, Cas had been outraged. "Joshua's lying," he'd insisted, but eventually, he believed. That belief had shattered his faith, and Castiel had abandoned his search for God.

"This is useless," he'd said, handing the god-finder amulet back to Dean, the amulet Sam had given to his brother for Christmas back when they were kids and that Dean had worn every single day for the past eighteen years. Dean had followed Cas's lead and dropped the amulet in the trash on his way out the door.

Sam had picked the amulet up. Bobby had said the amulet was "real special," and Cas had used it try to find God. It wasn't wise to leave magical things just lying around. And maybe Dean would want it back, someday.

"Do you have dreams of angels?" Ruth asked before taking a swig of beer.

Fallen angels were still angels. "They started about six months ago for me," Sam said. "The angel looked just like his vessel, or like somebody I already knew." Sam deliberately did not mention Lucifer by name.

"Yeah, mine too," Dean put in. "Which angels did you see? What did they look like?"

"They're all … wings, mostly. With fire and wind and a thousand silver eyes. Sometimes I see them in their vessels. Once there were two that looked like men, fighting, and a third—a woman—stabbed one from behind."

"When?" Sam asked immediately.

"A few days before Christmas, this year."

Sam had spent this Christmas in the hospital, sitting by Dean's bed, waiting for him to heal from the beating he'd taken from the demon Alastair. Another fun-filled holiday for the Winchester clan. Castiel had reported that Uriel was dead, but not how. Sam looked at Dean, and got back a quirked eyebrow and a thoughtful gaze. They'd talk about it later; Sam was sure.

"But the vessels' faces were always in shadow," Ruth was saying, "like they do on TV when they don't want you to know who people are."

"Huh," Dean said after a moment, and he and Sam looked at each other, shrugged, and went back to eating.

"Maybe the wings and eyes are their true form, and it's ok to see it in dreams?" Ruth suggested.

"Maybe," Dean allowed, chewing thoughtfully. "Zachariah told us he had four faces, and one was a lion. I bet one of the others is an ass."

"When did you start having dreams?" Sam asked her, hoping to establish a complete timeline. Michael had taken Ruth's brother as his vessel right when Sam and Dean had gotten Famine's ring, and he'd abandoned Nathan as soon as Sam and Dean had come back from their trip to heaven. It could be coincidence, or it could be something more.

"September eighteenth," she said. "Two thousand eight."

Sam lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Not too many people remembered dates that well. The dream must have made a real impression on her. That date was special in other ways, too. "Dean, that's the same day you … got back." Sam didn't want to bring up Dean's trip to hell in front of Ruth. "And the same day Anna started hearing the angels."

"I'd like to talk to Anna," Ruth said immediately.

"Well, you can't," Dean told her. "She's dead." He stabbed at his food but didn't eat it.

Ruth gave him a sidelong look but let him be, and Sam breathed a silent sigh of relief. He knew that Dean wouldn't want to talk about Anna, not after she had tried to kill Mom and Dad just to keep Dean from even being born. Not after Dean had seen Anna stab Sam then watched as Michael burned Anna alive from the inside.

Not after Anna had forgotten what it meant to be human, to care.

Sam gave his attention to the food, because Dean was eating again and Ruth had a good appetite, so the level in the cartons was going down fast. They were ready for the fortune cookies when Dean said suddenly, "Do you have a picture of your brother?"

Ruth wiped her hands on a napkin before pulling a picture from her wallet and setting it on the table. The guy in the picture had a lean face and dark eyes, like Ruth, but his dark hair was cut short in a military buzz. His brown leather jacket had a fake fur collar, and the scenery behind him was desert sand and barren hills.

Dean leaned in for a closer look. "Is that a flight jacket?"

"Yeah, Nathan's a Marine V-22 pilot," Ruth answered. "He was with his squadron in Iraq when Michael 'recruited' him for this … other war."

"Damn it," Dean muttered then leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his eyes. He looked at Ruth to say, "I'm sorry about your brother."

Ruth nodded, her mouth tight. "Thanks." She carefully put the picture away. She stood and cleaned up her trash, said, "Thanks for getting the food, and the Kirin beer," to Dean and "Videbo tuum," to Sam, then took another beer with her to the other room.

Dean looked at Sam. "Viddy-bow-tomb?"

"It's Latin for 'I'll see you.'"

"Sounds like you get to do homework," Dean said then ostentatiously tilted his chair back on two legs, put his feet on the bed, and opened another beer. "Me, I get to watch TV."

Sam left Dean to enjoy himself and went to work with Ruth. They finished around ten, then spent another couple of hours comparing and adjusting their translations, reading stuff online, and trying to make sense of it all.

Finally, Ruth undid her ponytail and ran her fingers through her hair. "So," she said, "to kill an angel, besides those silver knives, it looks like we would need control of a mythical beast with seven heads, the scepter of the Almighty, the scythe of Death, or an angel's flaming sword from the gates of paradise." She slumped back in her chair, her sign turning into a yawn. "I haven't seen any of those for sale on EBay."

"Holy oil could do it, and we can get that," Sam said. "But I'm not sure if it would kill only the human vessel or the angel itself. This last passage…" He picked it up to read, but found himself yawning again. "I'm sorry; I'm beat. Can we sleep on this and talk at breakfast tomorrow? Maybe we'll see something new then."

"Good idea," she said. "Would nine-thirty be ok? Or is that too late?"

"Nine-thirty would work great," Sam said. "It'll be nice to sleep in for a change."

A little later, as he stared at himself in the mirror in his hotel bathroom, Sam tried to remember the last time he'd gotten a good night's sleep and woken up feeling refreshed and ready for the day, instead of either dragging his sorry ass out of bed and stumbling around for coffee, or bolting wide awake in sheer terror with his heart slamming against his ribs. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept without dreams.

Definitely before Lucifer had put on Jess's form in Sam's dream then slithered into Sam's bed. That had been six months ago. Lucifer had been free for nearly a year, and it showed. Weather was going bat-shit crazy all over the planet, the Antichrist had appeared in Nebraska, and angels were stabbing each other from behind.

Meanwhile, he and Dean were running ragged on the knife-edge of exhaustion and frustration, with no idea how to stop anything except by saying "no."

And part of Sam really wanted to say yes. He wanted to give in, to let go, to close his eyes and relax, so that he could savor the hot gush of demon blood into his mouth as he ripped open the softness of a throat and licked it clean. He wanted to taste the blood, rich and heavy on his tongue. He wanted to feel it coursing through his veins, hot and strong. He craved that cold fire in his mind. He lusted for that power.

Lucifer would let him say yes. Lucifer would bring him demons to drink. Lucifer would let him sleep without dreams, and Lucifer would accept him for who he was.

Sam brushed his teeth for a long time. Then he spat into the sink, leaning on the counter with his forehead pressed against the cold mirror, watching the water spiral down.

He was running out of time.

* * *

><p><strong>Next: A visit to a roadside vegetable god<br>**


	9. Things Fall Apart

**Things Fall Apart**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Saturday, 13 March 2010<strong>_

* * *

><p>Sam called Bobby the next morning and told him about Ruth and her brother who'd been brain-fried by Michael. "So, I was wondering," Sam said, "could she come by your place to do research? She might find something, and we need all the help we can get, especially if Dean and I are busy with a job."<p>

"I suppose," Bobby said. "You'd better warn her not to expect any seals of good housekeeping. I didn't get the vacuuming done this year."

"I don't think that'll bother her any." Sam didn't see Ruth as the prissy type of girl.

"Is she pretty?"

"Um, yeah, I guess," Sam said.

"Uh-huh," he said. "You sweet on her?"

"What? No! I just met her, Bobby."

"So? How long does it take?"

For Dean, about twenty-five minutes. Which, considering the traveling life they led, made sense. But Sam didn't move that fast. He'd known Jess for months before he'd asked her out. He'd known Madison for three days, and then she had died. "Not long enough, Bobby," Sam said, the words coming out ragged. He had never had long enough.

The silence hung empty between them before Bobby said gruffly, "Sorry. I know."

Sam nodded and muttered, "Yeah," because Bobby hadn't had long enough, either. They'd each had to kill a woman they loved, to get rid of the demon she bore.

"If Ruth's coming here,' Bobby went on, back to business now, "you better tell her about the rest of the crap going on. She'll be walking into a war zone. She may not want to come."

"I'll talk to her," Sam promised. "Thanks, Bobby. See you soon." Sam looked up to see Dean emerging from the bathroom, freshly shaved and wearing a towel around his hips, his hair sticking straight up in spikes. "I'm going to invite Ruth to come to Bobby's," Sam said. "He said it was ok."

Dean nodded and started digging through his clothes for something to wear. "Sure. I like a girl who buys her own food. And drinks beer." He looked up suddenly. "Hey, do you think she can cook?"

"Maybe."

"We can hope," Dean said. "Hello, apple pie!"

He wasn't as happy about the late start that morning. "Nine-thirty? What's she doing? Painting her toenails?" When they finally met for breakfast, Dean brought up the subject again, but in a slightly nicer way, though still with enough tightness to the words to show his irritation. "Busy morning?" he inquired.

"Not really," Ruth said. "I got up at six, ran five miles, and then went to the Church of the Resurrection. Mass didn't start until eight, which is why I asked to meet now." She looked up from her plate laden with omelet, home fries, toast, and fruit, and asked brightly, "How has your morning been?"

"Fine." Dean nodded, clutching his coffee cup. "Just fine."

She gave him a cheerful nod then turned to Sam. "Thought of anything new since last night?"

"Not from what we've read, but we've got a friend named Bobby who has a lot of books of ancient lore, and some of them might have information about helping your brother. Bobby's in Sioux Falls, only about four hours away. He said it was ok if you looked at them. Want to follow us there today?"

"Sounds like a good idea," she said and gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Sam. I really had no idea where to start looking next."

Sam waited until she was done eating her omelet before he mentioned demons to her.

"Demons," she repeated slowly, setting down her fork.

"Angels ain't the only thing that's real," Dean said.

She took a deep breath, sat quiet for a moment, then asked: "How do you stop demons?" They explained holy water, salt, exorcism, iron, devil's traps, and the special demon-killing knife and gun. "No silver bullets?" she asked, sounding kind of brittle.

"Those work on werewolves and skinwalkers," Dean told her. "Now with vamps, beheading works best. Iron works on ghosts. Or course, any iron is just temporary. To really get rid of ghosts you have to burn the bones."

"Right," she said, dragging the word out slow.

But she didn't freak out, so Sam told her about some of the weird crap they'd seen at Bobby's house: people coming back from the dead, visits from demons, people dropping not-quite-dead monsters off to bury. "It's not safe," Sam warned her.

"What is?" she asked, but she obviously wasn't expecting an answer, because she picked up her fork and starting eating again, her head down. Sam finished off the last of his pancakes, and Dean sipped his coffee. Finally, Ruth pushed her plate to the side. "Thanks for the heads up," she said. "I'll go to Bobby's."

They hit the road at eleven, a straight shot going west on I- 90, with Ruth and Dean taking turns being the lead car. "So, this Dart Girl…," Dean began when he was once again in front.

"Her name is Ruth, Dean," Sam said.

"Yeah, right, Ruth. So, this Ruth girl, trying to kill Michael … she's crazy, right?"

"Crazier than us?"

"Nah," Dean replied with a grin. "Nobody's crazier than us. But killing Michael—no way she can do that." The Impala hummed along, its wheels kissing the pavement a little bit at a time. Dean checked the mirror to see how close Ruth was. "But if she did—not that she can, but if she does—then Lucifer's got no opposition."

"So either we kill them both, or we kill only Lucifer," Sam said.

"Yeah, like that's going to be easy," Dean said with a snort. "And I'm not so sure that having Michael alive and in charge would be ok."

"If we kill both Lucifer and Michael, who does that leave except another archangel?" Sam pointed out. "Do you really want Gabriel the Trickster in charge?"

Dean shuddered. "No, but I don't like Raphael the Jerk, either."

"If all the archangels are gone, what will keep the demons in line?"

Dean shook his head in frustration but then turned to Sam and now his grin was slightly crazed. "This is a stupid conversation, Sammy. We won't be able to kill any archangels, any more than Dartgirl will."

"So we stop them," Sam said firmly.

His brother didn't say anything to that. A mile later, he swore as Ruth emerged from the other side of a truck and zipped past them. They played leapfrog like that for the next forty miles, until Dean pulled off the highway and parked near a Dairy Queen with a sign that read "Closed for the Season."

Ruth put her car a few spaces over from them in the parking lot then got out. "What are we doing here?"

"Seeing America!" Dean replied. "Our roadside attractions are the stuff of legends."

"And nightmares," Sam muttered.

"Where else in the world can you see a statue of a fifty-five-foot green guy dedicated to frozen peas?" Dean waved his arm grandly at the Jolly Green Giant, who was standing with arms akimbo and feet apart, wearing a one-armed singlet of green leaves and crowned with a wreath.

Sam was just glad it wasn't a pagan god expecting sacrifices. He'd seen enough of those.

"And don't forget Sprout," Dean added, pointing to a little ply-board silhouette on the side of the path.

"Dean, you've never eaten a Brussels sprout in your life."

"But I know the song." He proved it by singing, "Ho ho ho, green giant." He pulled out his phone and asked, "Hey, Ruth, would you take our picture standing under the statue?"

That request was serious, and Sam understand Dean's quick swing from rampant silliness to the deep need to have some memento of the two of them together, just doing something fun instead of running bloody from one crisis to the next. And he understand why it had to be here. Dad had taken them to this park and taken their picture, that summer they had spent with Pastor Jim.

It looked like Ruth got it too, because she nodded and said, "Sure." She took a couple of shots of them between the giant's feet, climbing on the black cage that was supposed to keep people from stepping on the statue. She got one shot where Dean was looking up in horror with his arms protectively over his head, like the giant was about to rain down an enormous golden shower on them. Sam cracked up at that, and Ruth snapped a shot of both of them laughing, something they hadn't seen in a really long time.

"I'll take one of you," Dean offered.

But Ruth shrugged and said, "Thanks, but that's ok. I grew up in Blue Earth; my old house is about three blocks away. So I've got a couple of pictures of me playing here."

"No kidding?" Dean said. "We stayed here sometimes when we were kids, with Pastor Jim. Father Murphy, I mean. Did you know him?"

"Oh, yes. He gave me First Communion, and he heard my confession every Saturday for years." She looked down the road to the town. "Did you know he was murdered, in his own church?"

"Yeah," Sam said, remembering how Dad had pulled over on the side of the road, gotten out of his truck and slammed the door, then come back to their car and told them the news in a voice shaking with grief and rage. "We heard."

Ruth shook her head. "I still can't believe he's gone, especially that way."

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, but neither one of them spoke. What was the point of telling Ruth that her priest had been a hunter and had been slaughtered by a demon just to tick off their dad?

"I'd like to stop by the cemetery, as long as we're here," she said. "I can catch up to you."

"We'll come, too," Sam said. Sending flowers to the funeral wasn't the same as standing next to a man's grave and paying your respects. They got back in their cars and followed Ruth through the town. "Sure is quiet for a Saturday afternoon," he said to Dean, for the streets were empty and some of the houses had all their curtains drawn.

"The weather's crummy," Dean said, peering out the window at the overcast sky that threatened rain, or maybe snow. "And we are in Minnesota. Probably there's a hockey game on TV."

The cemetery was at the western edge of town, and they stood for a few moments next to the plain granite headstone. "Father James Patrick Murphy, 1951-2006" the deeply carved letters read. Sam turned his collar up against the chill wind that scoured the open fields nearby. Dean told a story about the time he'd nearly blown up Pastor Jim's kitchen, and Ruth talked about how he'd played basketball on Saturdays with the kids. "I'll always remember him singing _Ave Maria_ at the Christmas pageant," Sam said.

"Me, too," Ruth and Dean said at the same time, and they looked at each other in surprise. "Were you at the Christmas pageant in 1990?" Dean asked.

"I was in it. So was my brother."

"Your brother Nathan," Dean said slowly then snapped his fingers and started to grin. "Your brother Nate. Damn, girl!" he said. "He played Gabriel, and you played Mary. And Sammy here was—"

"I was a lamb," Sam broke in, before Dean could get started with the "Sam the Lamb" chant.

"I remember you now!" Ruth said. "We were in Mrs. Dornhof's class together. You sat in the back."

"Probably," Sam said, not really remembering that one classroom out of all the others. But he did remember Nate, now that he heard the name. "Your brother and I tried to dig a hole to China in your backyard one summer."

"Our dog loved that hole," Ruth said then turned to Dean. "And you're the older kid who taught Nathan how to make dart guns in the church basement."

"Yes, indeed," Dean said with some pride.

"Oh, my God," Ruth said with a laugh. "We shot dart guns all over the house for years. It drove our mom crazy. And that got us started on bows and arrows when we were nine. Nathan won an archery trophy in high school. I still have my bow."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that one lesson was so memorable," Dean said, and he and Ruth stood there smiling at each other in happy surprise, like they had never seen each other before.

And maybe they hadn't, not really, Sam realized. Dean had been kind of a dick lately, and Ruth had come off as kind of a bitch sometimes, but then both of them had a lot on their minds.

"Why were you two staying with Father Murphy?" Ruth asked.

"Our dad hunted demons," Sam told her. It felt odd to tell the truth. "Sometimes he had to leave us behind, to be safe." Not that Blue Earth had been a true haven. No place was. Sam looked again at the gravestone, and Ruth and Dean did, too.

Then Ruth knelt in prayer, and Sam and Dean backed off to give her room. Sam didn't see any point in praying to God, now that he knew no one was listening and no one cared.

Some days, Sam didn't see the point in anything. God wasn't in his heaven, and all wasn't right with the world. Lucifer was out of his cage and loose on the earth. War and Famine had been taken care of, but Plague and Death were still riding around. Castiel had given up and disappeared, the dead stalked the living, and Lucifer was stalking Sam.

Sam could feel the demon blood within him boiling, hot and hungry and aching for more. Rage pulsed with his every heartbeat, and something inside him wanted to kill.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean had called across a hotel room one day, looking up from a book. "Did you know that Lucifer's original name was Samael?"

Sam knew.

"Freaky, huh?" Dean had continued. "The names?"

Freaky, yeah. Or just plain freak. Sam could control it, that beast within. He could. He had to.

But some days, the only thing that kept Sam going was his determination not to disappoint Dean again. Dean had pretty much said the same to him. Neither one of them could stand up on their own; the only way they could get anywhere was to lean on each other and limp together down the road.

Ruth came up behind him, and Sam turned to greet her with a friendly smile.

"Let's go," Ruth said. As they walked toward the cemetery gates, she suddenly said, "My Aunt Jen lives about forty miles southwest of here. I haven't seen her since Christmas, and I'd like to stop by. How about I catch up with you guys at Bobby's tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean said with a shrug. "That'd be fine. You got the directions, right?"

"Sam gave them to me this morning; they're in my GPS."

They'd swapped phone numbers and email addresses, too, and she'd typed those into her phone. She also had an Ipod installed in her 1989 Corvette—no antique tapes for her. Sam indulged in music envy until they got to the cars.

"See you tomorrow," she said and waved as she drove west out of town.

Sam was reaching for the handle of the car door when Dean looked at him over the roof of the Impala and asked, "Hey, do you think Linda's Café on Main Street still makes those great pies?"

"We can find out," Sam said, upbeat and cheerful, determined to make the best of this trip down memory lane with his brother.

As they walked past the elementary school and toward the center of town, Dean told stories of Mrs. Hoehn, his fifth-grade teacher, and how she had declared him "incorrigible" in front of the whole class. "Proudest moment of my life," Dean said, laughing. "Once I found out what it meant."

"Hey, that's Tommy's house," Sam said, pointing to a dark green bungalow at the corner of Linton Street. "We used to build forts in his backyard."

"And here comes Main Street," Dean announced. "Right or left for Linda's Café?"

"Left, I think," Sam said. But they walked a few blocks and didn't see it. "Um … right? Unless it's closed."

"Now that," Dean declared, "would be a tragedy." They were each peering down the street when Dean said, "Hey, Sam? I don't think they're looking for pie."

Sam turned to see three men, moving toward them with unnatural rhythm and unnerving intent. "Demons," he muttered savagely. And in the only place that even remotely qualified as their home town. Couldn't they ever catch a fucking break?

"Back to the car," Dean said, and he and Sam broke into a run.

They didn't make it in time.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "The Falcon Cannot Hear", in which Castiel carries Chuck's booze<br>**_


	10. The Falcon Cannot Hear

**The Falcon Cannot Hear**

* * *

><p><strong>Saturday, 13 March 2010, Kripke Hollow, Ohio<strong>

* * *

><p><em>They didn't make it in time.<em>

"That's a good line to end on," Chuck said, nodding to himself in satisfaction at the words on the screen.

Not that he bothered that much about plot and pacing these days. Or foreshadowing or symbolism or character development or point of view. He still watched his punctuation, grammar, and spelling, of course, but what he wrote would never be published in book form, so he didn't worry about putting the scenes together; he just wrote them as they came. He didn't have much of a choice, really; the visions hammered inside his head until he was done.

But anyway, a cliff hanger was always good. With the Winchester boys, sometimes they actually were hanging from a cliff. But this time, it was just demons. A lot of demons, it's true, but just demons.

Chuck took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes then yawned and stretched in his desk chair. He saved the file and powered the computer down. Time for lunch. Or dinner. Or something. He'd lost track of time.

That didn't matter much, either. He ate when he was hungry and slept when he could. The rest of the time, he wrote, feverishly chronicling the adventures of Sam and Dean in the final days before the apocalypse. Less than two months to go.

But right now, he needed to go to the grocery store. And—a quick check of the refrigerator and the cupboards confirmed—the liquor store. He let his bathrobe slide off his shoulders, picked out jeans and a T shirt from the pile on the couch and got dressed, decided not to bother with combing his hair, then got in his battered VW bug and drove.

When his car was full of groceries. Castiel the angel appeared in the passenger seat. "Jesus Christ!" Chuck breathed, his heart pounding in fright as he yanked his car back into his lane.

"No," came the gravel-voiced reply. "This vessel still carries Castiel."

"Right, uh, yeah," Chuck managed. "Ok." A guy on a motorcycle wearing a black leather jacket decorated with a red-skulled demon was glaring at him from about four feet away. Chuck tried a little friendly wave and an apologetic smile. The motorcyclist gave him the finger and drove away. Chuck sighed. "Um, Castiel?" he ventured. "You're sitting on a carton of eggs."

"The seat does feel… crunchy," Castiel said thoughtfully. "I thought it was common to all 'bugs'."

"No."

He waved his hand. "I made the eggs go away." He shifted in the seat then nodded. "Much more comfortable now."

Chuck sighed again. He'd been looking forward to an omelet tonight. Then he looked in his rear view mirror and swore. Flashing lights. Cops. Just great. "Castiel, please put your seatbelt on," he said as he started looking for a good place to pull over.

"I am wearing a belt."

"Not your pants belt," Chuck explained. "Your seat belt." Castiel looked at him blankly, and Chuck swore again. Seat belts hadn't been required until 1968, and the Impala (the only other vehicle Castiel had ever been in) had come off the line in April of 1967. The Winchesters didn't bother with seatbelts. Which was foolhardy of them, but considering all deadly crap they dealt with every day, not surprising.

Chuck parked next to the dented guardrail. Castiel looked at him and asked, "Why are we stopping?"

"The police officer wants to talk to me."

"I want to talk to you."

"Oh?" This was not exactly good news, but at least now Chuck knew why Castiel was here.

"I will make the police officer go away," Castiel announced, lifting his hand.

"NO!" Chuck said, and miracle of miracle, Castiel's hand stopped in midwave. "We'll be done soon," Chuck said. He hoped. Just a warning, maybe a reminder to get that rear taillight fixed. Hopefully not a ticket for breaking the seatbelt law. "Just, please… put your seatbelt on now."

The cop had gotten out of the police car. Castiel was studying the belt across Chuck's lap. "Why?"

"It's the law."

"I did not know that law." He sounded a little abashed; angels were used to obeying. "How is it done?"

"Grab the belt near your right shoulder and insert the tab into the buckle near your left hip," Chuck instructed. A flight attendant would have been proud.

Castiel turned his head to look at it. "It's too short," he announced. "I believe it's defective."

"You have to pull on it to make it longer."

Castiel yanked, and Chuck let out a yelp of protest "It's definitely too short," Castiel said, giving short, sharp tugs. "And now it won't move."

"Not so hard," Chuck said. "First let go, and then pull gently." Castiel seemed to be getting the hang of it, and Chuck said, "You can use both hands," while he lifted himself up a little to pull his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Oh," said Castiel. "Yes, that's better." He kept pulling, hand over hand, then announced, "It stopped moving again."

"That's all there is," Chuck told him, working on getting his license out. The extra belt length on Castiel's lap would have gone around an elephant.

"Now I put it in?"

"Now you put it in," Chuck agreed. Castiel bent his head to examine the tab more closely then started to hunt for the buckle. "Here," Chuck said, reaching between the seats then turning to help. Then he had to lean over, trying to untangle the belt before "inserting the tab in the buckle" because somehow Castiel had managed to get the belt in a figure eight Mobius strip.

And so it was, that when the tap of the police officer sounded on the window, Chuck had his face buried in the lap of an angel.

He twisted around to see the familiar face of Melanie Patterson, his tenth grade biology partner, all grown-up and wearing a uniform. She'd gotten pregnant in twelfth grade, married the guy, had the baby, then gotten divorced within the year. He'd been drunk and abusive, so people said, and she'd lived with her folks until little Dani started kindergarten. Melanie had taken criminal justice classes at the community college and become a cop, specializing in domestic abuse cases. She was studying to be a lawyer and wanted to be a judge some day.

Chuck sat up in a hurry, banging his elbow on the steering wheel. He shook his head to clear out yet another person's life story from his brain. He didn't need any more of those. "Um, hi, Melanie."

"Hi, Chuck." Her words were toneless, her face expressionless. "Who's your … friend?"

"His name is Castiel. He's … um … just visiting. "

"I'm from L.A.," Castiel volunteered.

Dean had taught him to say that. "If people think Castiel is from California," Dean had correctly observed, "no one will think much of it when he pulls some weird crap. Tell them you're from L.A., Cas."

"San Francisco is weirder than L.A.," Bobby had said.

"But he's an angel, so he's from Los Angeles. Ok?"

And Castiel had said ok. But the city hadn't been named for angels; it was named for their queen. The tiny mission settlement of Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles had grown in size and shrunk in name over the centuries, and only a few remembered.

Right now, Chuck was very glad that Castiel wasn't claiming to be from San Francisco. That sort of thing didn't go over too well in Kripke's Hollow. Chuck tried to keep his face just as blank as Melanie's was.

Her light blue eyes flicked up, then down, taking in Castiel's slightly mussed hair, the loosened tie, the open coat. Then they flicked over Chuck, lingering on his mismatched socks. "Right," Melanie said. "License and registration, please."

Chuck handed her his license then pulled his registration card off the visor and gave that to her, too. Then he sat and waited, staring straight ahead and tapping his foot gently, while Castiel watched Melanie curiously as she made little notes on a pad of paper. Finally, she handed him back his license and registration then said, "Chuck, your left brake light is out."

"It is?" Chuck asked, pretending amazement. "I'll get that fixed right away, Melanie. Thanks for letting me know." She gave him a narrowed-eyed look, checked out Castiel again, then nodded and walked away. Chuck breathed out a heavy sigh of relief and closed his eyes as the crunch of shoes on gravel faded away.

Castiel's voice broke the silence. "Why are we still here?"

Chuck opened his eyes and tried not to sigh again. "We wait for the police officer to leave first."

"Why?"

Chuck wasn't sure. You just did. Maybe it was because you didn't want to get pulled over again? Maybe it was because cops always got to go first. He couldn't explain and he didn't want to argue. Time for an out-of-the-blue segue. "What do you want to talk to me about, Castiel?"

"What happened when Dean and Sam were in heaven?" he asked. "What did Joshua say?"

"They told you already."

Castiel shook his head. "What they told me is not necessarily what was said. Their memories are … erratic."

He meant defective, Chuck knew. Maybe Castiel was actually developing some tact. "I have that scene at home, if you want to read it."

"I do. I can take us there or you can drive. The police officer Melanie Patterson is gone."

"I'll drive," Chuck said, starting his car. But first things first. He drove to Possum Trot Liquors and parked the car.

Castiel looked at the sign and announced, "This is not your home. Why are we here?"

"I'm out of beer."

"Ah." Castiel nodded in understanding, for that was another thing Dean had taught him. "Beer is necessary." He opened the car door but couldn't get out. Chuck reached over and released the seat belt for him.

In the store, Chuck bought beer and tequila and whisky and vodka. "Do you want anything?" he asked Castiel, who was examining a bottle of Frangelica.

Castiel put it back on the shelf. "I do not drink."

"Right. Of course." Angels didn't eat, either. "Let's go."

When they got in the car, Castiel put his seat belt on. Then he started asking questions, and Chuck found himself explaining seat belts, air bags, bumpers, and car crash fatality rates on the way back to the house. "Dean and Sam seem unacquainted with much of this," Castiel observed as he carried a bag of bottles into the kitchen.

"Well," Chuck said, "they have an old car." He opened a beer and turned on his computer. Castiel stood by the desk, not moving or saying or doing anything, but somehow managing to radiate impatience all the same. The computer beeped and purred.

Chuck pulled his desk chair into position and clicked a few times. "Here," Chuck said, pointing to the screen. "That is what Joshua said to the boys about God, word for word." Chuck had typed it on a dark and rainy morning ten days ago. He'd left it as plain dialogue, like a screen play. He'd been doing that more and more these days. Castiel read every word, but the last two lines said it all.

_DEAN: So he's just going to sit back and watch the world burn?_

_JOSHUA: I know how important this was to you, Dean. I'm sorry._

Castiel straightened up from reading. His face was completely calm. His eyes were dead. "It appears that Dean and Sam's memories were accurate. I had hoped…" He turned away. Under his ever-present trench coat, his shoulders were slumped, and he seemed smaller somehow.

"You know, Joshua might be lying," Chuck pointed out, because Joshua had answered Sam's question "How do we know you're not lying?" with another question, and his later line about "just trimming the hedges" simply screamed literary allusion to a line in a very famous play by a very famous playwright. Joshua was an obvious variation on the name Jesus, and so it sure looked like God had recruited his son into the family business of being "a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will". And gardeners, by definition, interfered all the time: weeding, planting, watering, digging, composting…

Castiel swung around to look at him. "Dean and Sam believe Joshua was telling the truth."

"Yes, well…" Chuck hadn't been going to go there, but since Castiel had opened that door… "Dean and Sam believe you."

Castiel's eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. If Chuck hadn't known that the archangel Raphael would come down in a seriously smiteful mood if Castiel so much as lifted a finger, Chuck would have been (as the phrase went) "sore afraid".

But Castiel glared for just a second more then disappeared. Chuck shivered and got a sudden craving for cinnamon buns. He popped a Hungry Man dinner in the microwave then sat down to write the scene of Castiel suddenly appearing at Possum Trot Liquors, drinking an entire bottle of Frangelica, and then starting in on the real booze.

Chuck ate his dinner at the table, staring out the window at the dark. He used to like to read while he ate, but he really needed a break from words sometimes. It didn't help all that much; there were always words in his head, thoughts spinning 'round.

Was God really lonely, the way Joshua had said? He must be, because God didn't have anyone to talk with. No one else could do the job. Except maybe his son.

Was that garden just a literary symbol of the Garden of Eden, or was all of creation the garden of God? And if so, did that mean that Heaven's Garden was everywhere, all the time, and people just didn't recognize it?

And why wasn't God stopping the apocalypse? Was he just tired of dealing with squabbles, the way Chuck's parents had sometimes left Chuck and his brother to figure things out on their own? "Both of you, go to your room and stay there—together—until you can be civil to each other!" Mom would order when it got really bad, and Chuck and Tom would go sit on their beds, for hours sometimes, until they got bored enough to start talking to each other again.

Or was God tired of giving orders all the time? Did he want the angels to develop free will, to stand up to him and be more adult? Anna and Castiel had been hewing their own paths lately. Lucifer had been the first of the angels to disobey. Was Lucifer actually God's favorite? Was that why Michael was so angry with him?

God loved all his creations, it was said, even when they disappointed him or turned evil. Chuck understood that. Authors loved all the characters in their books, even if they didn't like them very much, even when the characters did horrible things to each other or made huge mistakes or were just plain annoying. You put care and energy and thought into the creation of a character, and if you did it right, they came alive and surprised you. They resisted your carefully thought-out plot. They refused to say that line of dialogue you had planned.

They disobeyed.

And _that_ was when the story worked best. That was when it was real. Then it was up to you to get into their heads to see what made them tick. You had to want what they wanted, hate what they hated, feel what they felt. You had to_ be_ them. So you loved them.

And sometimes, you killed them. You might regret it, you might weep while you wrote the death, knowing it was necessary for the story, even if you didn't know exactly how or why. God works in mysterious ways, it was said, mysterious even to himself sometimes, maybe.

"You can drive yourself nuts," Chuck muttered to himself. Joshua definitely had that part right. Chuck opened the whisky and drank until the voices in his head were quiet, then fell asleep on the couch.

* * *

><p>He woke to darkness, and started writing again. Sam and Dean were still fighting their way free of a pack of demons in the town of Blue Earth, Minnesota. They made it to a hardware store, and demon after demon succumbed to chainsaws, nail guns, and the like. The brothers saved each other's lives again, and used a forklift to pin the demon against the wall. Sam was bleeding badly from the shoulder when they finally got back to the Impala, and they hightailed it out of town. Dean's foot was pressing the accelerator to the floor, making his baby go as fast as she could go, and more demons were close behind. Then they came to the blockade, and Dean hit the brakes, tires screaming in the night. They soon joined up with the local Sacrament Lutheran Militia and got to work on cleaning up the town.<p>

Meanwhile, back at Bobby's….

Chuck stared at the little blinking cursor on the screen, opened another beer, thought about it for a while, then started to type.

_The last cute young thing to knock on Bobby Singer's front door had been selling Girl Scout cookies. So when he answered his doorbell…_

* * *

><p><strong>Next: Bobby figures things out<br>**


	11. Down the Line

**Down the Line**

* * *

><p><em><strong>March 2010, Sioux Falls, South Dakota<strong>_

* * *

><p>The last cute young thing to knock on Bobby Singer front door had been selling Girl Scout cookies. So when he answered his doorbell on Sunday afternoon and found an attractive young woman, he was pleasantly surprised, even though he'd known she'd be coming. She had dark hair and dark eyes, no makeup, a laptop but no purse, jeans and a sweater, and sensible boots instead of sexy heels. "Mr. Singer?" she asked.<p>

"Yes, but call me Bobby," he replied. The name "Mr. Singer" always made him look around for his dad.

"I'm Ruth Halston," she announced. "Sam Winchester told you I was coming."

Sam had been right about this girl being forthright. "Yeah, sure, glad you could make it," Bobby said, wheeling his chair back and out of the way of the door. "Come on in." She followed him into the hallway, eyeballing his chair, and he asked, "Never seen a wheelchair before?"

"Sure," she said. "Sam didn't mention you used one."

Must be nice to be able to forget.

Ruth sat down on the dusty bench along the wall, so that they were looking eye to eye, and offered, "Want me to help you pimp your ride?"

* * *

><p>He didn't take her up on her offer to decorate his chair, but late on Monday morning when she asked if he'd minded if she cleaned something around the house, he protested only a little before he gave in. "I can't read for hours and hours," she explained, shoving a book away. "I need a break. And I'd like to get <em>something <em>useful accomplished." The translations hadn't gone well.

"Ok," he said finally. "I'll make us lunch." He had made tuna fish sandwiches, even toasted the bread, sliced up an orange, and put a pickle on each plate. Usually he just ate straight out of the can.

On Monday, she cleaned the bathrooms. On Tuesday, she washed some windows. On Wednesday, she vacuumed the downstairs. When the racket stopped, he wheeled into the hallway to tell her lunch was ready and found her examining his rack of guns. "I can teach you to shoot, if you like," he offered. She turned, looking a little surprised, and he added, "Sam did tell you this place is kind of a war zone, didn't he?"

"He did," she said. "And thanks. But I already know how to shoot."

"Oh," Bobby said, a little surprised himself, but relieved. "Your dad teach you? Or your brother?"

That got a hint of a grin. "My staff sergeant in boot camp." Then she specified, "Parris Island."

Well … damn. "Sam didn't say you were a Marine."

She lifted both eyebrows, looking thoughtful. "I don't think it came up." She shrugged. "I'm a civilian now."

"Yeah, right," Bobby muttered. Once a Marine, always a Marine, and her brother was still in the Corps. "Want to shoot later? I got a target range out back."

She grinned like a four-year-old who'd just been given a pile of candy when it wasn't even Halloween. "I'd love to," Ruth said. "I haven't shot anything in a year and a half."

Bobby grinned back, partly because she looked so happy and partly because he was looking forward to seeing the look on Sam and Dean's faces when they found out. "First let's eat," Bobby said. "Food's getting cold." He'd made grilled cheese sandwiches (cut into triangles) and tomato soup today, with applesauce from a jar and Oreos for dessert.

Bobby waited until Ruth had finished saying a silent grace and crossed herself before he picked up his spoon and asked, "How long were you in?"

"Seven years." She popped open a can of Mountain Dew. "Basic, Oki, and four years in Iraq."

No wonder she hadn't freaked out about walking into the war zone that was his life. "That's why you've seen wheel chairs."

"VA hospital. I was there for a while after my arm got hit eighteen months ago." She held out her right hand in front of her and watched as she waggled her fingers. "I've still got them, and they all still work." Ruth took a drink and shrugged again. "I was really lucky. Some of the guys…"

"Yeah," Bobby muttered.

She was looking at him now. "When did you get the chair?"

"Last June." He hadn't wanted it, but lying in a hospital bed day after day was worse. "Got knifed during a fight with a demon." It was his turn to shrug. "I was lucky." He didn't always think that—hell, he hardly ever thought that—but he knew it was true. He could be missing both his arms. Or maybe his eyes like Pamela. Or his entire face. He could be possessed. He could be in hell.

It could always be worse. "So you were … what? Right out of high school when you joined up?"

"Pretty much. Nathan and I graduated in May, and I went to the recruiting office on September eleventh. Nathan would have joined then, too, but he had a full scholarship to college, and classes had already started. Mom and Dad said he should do that first then join. He was afraid the war would be over by the time he graduated." She dunked her piece of sandwich into her soup then looked up with a crooked grin. "Turns out that wasn't a problem."

"Yeah." Bobby got back to eating, because there wasn't much point in talking about that war. He had his own battles to fight.

Her phone beeped, and she put down her spoon. "It's from Sam," she announced, reading the little screen. "He says something else came up, and he and Dean probably wouldn't make it here today, either."

"Oh," was all Bobby said, though when Sam had called late on Monday night, he'd said that Dean had taken off in the Impala and disappeared. "Blue Earth was rough; I think Dean's planning to say yes to Michael," Sam had said, his voice tight. "I think he went to say goodbye to Lisa." Sam (with Castiel's help) had spent all of Tuesday looking for Dean, checking hotel after hotel in Cicero, Indiana, where Dean's old flame Lisa lived with her son, Ben. Sounded like Sam and Castiel hadn't found Dean yet. Bobby picked up another triangle of grilled cheese and ate half of it with one bite. "They'll get here eventually." He popped the rest of it in his mouth and chewed. "They always do."

"Do Sam and Dean stay here a lot?" Ruth asked.

"They're on the road mostly, but yeah, this is a home base for them. They sleep upstairs." They used to sack out in the living room, but Bobby had laid claim to the downstairs now, and the boys snored. Then Bobby remembered that Ruth had mentioned she was staying in a hotel in town. That got expensive real fast. "Do you need a place to stay?" he asked. "I mean, you know, what with the money and all and… There are three bedrooms upstairs, and I ain't using any of them."

"I'm fine, Bobby," Ruth said. "Thanks."

She had a real pretty smile. He smiled back, wondering if Sam might someday catch a break with the demon-crap and stop being such an idjit about girls. What the hell kind of answer was, "Um, yeah, I guess"? Was the boy blind?

"What's the difference between archangels, angels, seraphim, and cherubim?" Ruth asked.

"The lore's a little different, depending on which tradition: Hebrew, Christian, Muslim, or whatever," Bobby cautioned her. "Generally, seraphim have six wings and are the most powerful. Archangels are seraphim. Cherubim are next; they have four faces and four wings. They guard the ark of the covenant. Then come ophanim, which look like wheels but still with wings. Finally hashmallim, two wings and a human body."

"The way we usually think of angels," she said.

"Right," he agreed. "But 'angel' just means messenger. Anybody with a message from God is an angel, no matter what rank they are." They finished lunch by talking about angel lore, and how a "choir of angels" didn't mean singing, was how a cupid wasn't really a cherub. As he opened the package of Oreos, Bobby asked her, "Do you know your family tree?"

"My dad researched his side back to the Civil War and did some of my mom's, too. Why?"

"Michael told the boys they were part of some ancient bloodline, which is why they can be vessels for archangels."

"Sam, too?"

"Uh…yeah." Bobby didn't go into the Lucifer thing. "That's why Michael wants Dean. I did some research into the Winchester family last month, and I got to wondering if Nathan was maybe…"

"…maybe part of the bloodline too," she finished. "Let's find out." She stood, gathering the dishes. "You get out the research you've done, and I'll clean up in here while I call my dad and get some names."

Bobby wheeled into the living room and pulled out the Winchester family files. About the time he had the table cleared off and the chart unrolled, Ruth came in, her phone to her ear. "—isolate genetic factors, Dad, so Dr. Singer needs our family tree. Oh, just send all of it. I'll sort through it. Can you attach the file and send it to me right now? Thanks! I'll call you and Mom tonight, at eight like always. Love you, too, Dad."

She pulled out a chair and sat at the table as Bobby scratched his beard and asked, "'Doctor' Singer?"

She shrugged, waving a hand around the cluttered, shabby room. "You're a specialist. This is your clinic."

Well, he'd impersonated FBI agents and health inspectors. Why not a doctor, too? "Here's the Winchester family tree," he said, pointing to the chart. "Any names look familiar?"

She read it over then shook her head. "Let me see if Dad's file showed up yet." She punched and clicked her gadget, and in a minute or so she had a list of names. "What do you know," Ruth murmured. "My mother's mother is Renata Winchester, born 1923, died 1958."

Bobby shook his head. "She's not on the chart. Got any of her relatives?"

"Her brother is Caleb; her father is Clarence."

"Bingo," Bobby said with satisfaction. "John's father is Caleb Winchester, born 1920, died 1955. Caleb's dad was Clarence. Dates match?"

"Yes," Ruth said, leaning over to look at the chart. "So, that means Dean and Sam and Nathan and I are…"

"Second cousins," Bobby supplied. "I guess Michael thought that would work, but—"

"But it didn't," she broke in grimly. Ruth looked at the Campbell side of the chart then went back to her list. "Their maternal grandmother is Deanna Courier?"

"Yeah. That's as far as I went."

"I can add more," Ruth said then filled in a bunch of names and dates. She flipped the chart around for Bobby to see. "Renata Winchester's husband was James Courier, Deana's younger brother."

"Damn." Bobby examined the crossing lines. "That means you're second cousins on the mother's side, too. Double second cousins."

"Which side does the bloodline come through?"

"I thought it was John's, but … maybe both? Maybe if we went back farther, we'd see more connections." The angels had to have been breeding these bloodlines for generations, for millennia, back to Cain and Abel and Adam and Eve. John and Mary had probably been related to each other somehow. That's how you strengthened a trait, kept crossbreeding it back in. And you'd want more than one line, in case something went wrong. Castiel's vessel was part of a bloodline, too. Maybe they were all cousins, somehow.

"Everybody on this chart is dead, except my family and Sam and Dean," Ruth observed. She pointed to a name at the bottom. "Even their half-brother Adam died last year, and he was only nineteen. Winchesters don't live long?"

"Doesn't seem so," Bobby admitted. "And a few years back, a demon named Azazel took out everyone related to the boys' mom."

"To wipe out vessels for the archangels?"

"Maybe," he said slowly. He'd always thought it was just plain ornery evilness, but maybe killing her family had been deliberate, and killing her friends had been for fun. "Looks like your family escaped the purge."

Ruth lifted her soda can in an ironic toast. "We had an angel watching over us."

Just like Sam and Dean. Great. Bobby rolled up the chart and snapped the rubber band around it tight. "Ready to shoot?" he asked.

She grinned and said again, "I'd love to."

* * *

><p>Outside, between two lines of junked cars, Ruth set up some paper targets on the earthen backstop. She put on ear protectors and used both a rifle and a handgun. Her first set was terrible; she was out of practice and her right arm was lacking both steadiness and strength. But after an hour of shooting, she was managing to at least stay in the ring most of the time. She'd do better tomorrow.<p>

She hoped the research would be better, too. The stuff in Bobby's books was unbelievable, in various mixtures of creepy and amazing and interesting and weird, but she hadn't found anything so far that would help her fix Nathan or stop Michael. She hoped Sam could help when he finally arrived.

As Ruth came into the kitchen, she heard men's voices in the living room, so she grabbed a soda from the fridge and went to see. Bobby was on the couch in front of the window, looking like he'd just woken up from his nap, and Dean was pacing the floor. He wasn't looking much better than Bobby; his eyes were red-rimmed and tired.

"Hey, Ruth," he greeted her.

"Hey, Dean. Didn't expect to see you here today. Where's Sam?" she asked.

"Driving my car," Dean replied sourly.

"It is a thirteen-hour drive from Indiana to here," a rough voice supplied from behind her. "Sam should arrive well before sunrise."

Ruth turned in surprise because she hadn't heard anyone come in, though the swirl of cold air around her ankles probably meant an open door somewhere. Standing in the wide doorway between the kitchen and the living room was a dark-haired man with bright blue eyes, dressed in a knee-length tan coat over a dark suit. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, and his blue tie was askew. His dress shoes were muddy, and he needed a shave. His hair was messy, but at least it wasn't as long as Sam's.

The newcomer was looking at her just as intently as she was looking at him. He seemed familiar somehow. Ruth met his gaze and announced, "My name is Ruth Halston."

"She's a friend," Bobby put in.

"I'm Castiel," the man replied. The sound of his name hung heavy in the air, and he made no effort to shake hands.

"Castiel," Ruth repeated, and suddenly she realized who—what—he was. Castiel. An angel of God. That draft of cold air hadn't been from an open door; this angel moved without wings. She swallowed in a mouth suddenly gone dry, but stood her ground.

The angel tilted its head quizzically, somehow managing to look like a curious kitten. A kitten who would enjoy disemboweling tiny furry creatures or ripping legs and wings off bugs. That was when Ruth knew where she'd seen this angel before. It made no sense, because he was in a vessel now, but somehow she knew. "You're the angel who went into hell," she said. "When the black octopus made spiders and the other angels burned them all."

"What?" Dean demanded, but Ruth was busy so she ignored him.

"You are not a prophet," Castiel declared, its eyes narrowing. "How do you know this?"

"I saw it. In a dream." A nightmare. "What were you carrying, when you came out?" she asked, for she had wondered that for a year and a half.

Dean cleared his throat and raised his hand then once again said, as he had in the bar, "That would be me."

This, Ruth couldn't ignore. "You were in hell?"

"I was." Dean's eyes, bleak and haunted, gave truth to his words. The lines around his mouth were marks of pain, lips held tight to keep from screaming. She'd seen that type of look before on the battlefield. In hospital beds. In a homeless man's eyes.

"I drew Dean forth so that he could serve as Heaven's vessel in the fight against Hell," Castiel explained.

Ruth swung back to the angel and demanded, "You want him to say yes to Michael?" Castiel shook his head.

"Not anymore," Castiel said. "Things have changed." Then he fixed Dean with a fiercely righteous glare. "For everyone."

Bobby sighed and shook his head, muttering, "Damn it, boy," then heaved himself into his wheelchair and moved to the place of authority, sitting behind his desk. "What happened in Blue Earth, Dean?"

"People died," Dean answered shortly. Everyone was looking at him, waiting for more, and he abruptly declared, "I'm getting a beer," then stalked into the kitchen.

Ruth sat on the straight-backed chair near Bobby's desk and waited. Castiel stood where he was, staring at Ruth, studying her. "What?" she finally asked, because it was creeping her out.

"You are different than most humans," he told her just as Dean came back in with his beer. "There is a … glow about you."

Dean spluttered and choked and barely hung onto his beer bottle. "She's pregnant?" he demanded.

"No," Ruth answered immediately, just as Castiel also said, "No." She shot both him and Dean a glare of mingled outrage and irritation; how would Castiel know, anyway, and why in the world would Dean ask him instead of her?

"Pregnant humans do look different," Castiel went on, "but not in this way."

"What way?" she asked, trying to keep her tone calm.

"Brighter."

Ruth waited, but the angel didn't say anything more, and she didn't like this conversation anyway. She didn't like angels. She turned from him and asked Dean, "Who died in Blue Earth?"

He sighed and straddled the chair on the other side of Bobby's desk, sitting on it backwards so that he could rest his elbows on its back. The beer bottle dangled loosely in his hand. "Leah Gideon, daughter of the minister. A teenager named Dylan. Paul the bartend—"

"Dylan?" she broke in. "Dylan Barstow? Were his parents named Rob and Jane?"

"Yeah. Did you know him?"

"I used to babysit him when I was in high school. He liked Batman. And cinnamon toast cut into strips." For the umpteenth time this month, she had to blink back sudden and unwanted tears.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, but unlike when most people usually said that, he actually sounded like he meant it.

She hid her sniffles and stinging eyes by taking a drink from her soda and murmuring, "Thanks."

"Dean," Castiel asked, "how did you meet this woman?"

"In a library. Research project."

Ruth slammed her can down on the desk and answered the question herself: "I told Dean and Sam I wanted to learn how to kill an angel."

Dean choked on his beer again, but Castiel just flicked her a glance before going back to watching Dean. Bobby sucked in air before touching her arm. "Uh, Ruth," Bobby said quietly, "Castiel's a friend."

"An angel friend?"

"Just one," Dean told her then explained to Castiel: "Michael took Ruth's twin brother out for a spin last month then left him high and dry. Her brother's been in the hospital for over a week."

"Oh," Castiel said. Then he looked at her, instead of examining her, and said, "I'm sorry." Just like Dean, he actually sounded sincere.

"Thanks," she muttered then added her own, "I'm sorry," and she meant it, too.

"Michael was trying out another branch of the family tree," Bobby announced into the silence then when Dean looked confused, explained, "She's your cousin."

"Second-cousin," Ruth added. "From both sides: mother and father."

"No kidding," Dean said with a slow nod. He twisted to say, "Hey, Cas—"

But Castiel was gone. The kitchen was cold again, and the air was dusty sweet. "Damn it," Dean swore. "I hate it when he does that."

Ruth didn't like it, either. She ditched her soda and went to get a beer. She needed one after that. "Bobby?" she called, and he yelled back, "Hell, yes!" and Dean said, "Me, too!" so Ruth brought back three bottles and they sat around Bobby's desk and drank, while Dean kept sneaking odd looks her way. She couldn't get mad about that; she was doing the same thing to him. This cousin thing was weird. But it wasn't really that important now.

"What else haven't you told me?" Ruth asked. "Besides you going to hell and having an angel buddy."

"Want a list?" Dean asked in exasperation then sighed and settled down. "Look, there's a hell of a lot of stuff going on."

"Literally," she tossed back at him.

"Yeah, literally," he agreed. "Ok fine. Here's the quick version: I died. I went to hell. While I was there, I broke the first seal to Lucifer's cage. Then Castiel pulled me out, because the rest of the seals were being broken by demons. I was supposed to help stop that, but I failed. Sam accidently broke the last seal, and Lucifer got free." Dean moodily picked at the label on his beer bottle then took a drink and went on.

"That was almost a year ago. Along the way, we found out some angels were helping to break the seals, because they want the apocalypse, too. That's when Castiel decided to stop being heaven's tool. But we can't stop the apocalypse, and—"

"Dean—," Bobby began.

"We can't, Bobby," Dean told him. "It's time to stop marching along like good little soldiers and start facing the music for a change. We can't stop it. But what I can do is to fix the mess I made. That's my job. Michael needs me to be his vessel, and I'm going to say yes, so we can defeat Lucifer and close down hell."

Ruth slowly set down her beer. "I told you what being Michael's vessel did to my brother. Do you really think you'll survive?

"No." Dean's eyes were bleak and haunted again. "Not really. Even if I am the cousin he's been waiting for." He added a smile and a shrug, trying to make it a joke, but his shrug was of desperation and his smile was of pain.

She'd seen that kind of smile before, on men who'd decided it was their time to die.

"But nobody else is going to die or get hurt because I won't do my God-damned job," Dean went on, with a fierce quiet intensity more powerful than any shout. "Nobody else. Not like you, Bobby. Not like Pamela or Jo or Ellen or Ash. Not like Dylan."

Dean looked at Ruth to vow, "And not like Nathan." Then Dean stood and walked out, slamming the door on his way out of the house.

* * *

><p>"For greater love hath no man," Castiel murmured, watching unseen from behind the veil as Dean left Bobby's house to walk among broken cars. Sometimes, Dean would touch a rusted hulk, laying a hand as if to heal, murmuring words of appreciation or sympathy. Castiel had heard Dean call his own vehicle "baby" and "darling." Castiel was certain that cars did not have souls, but some humans treated their cars as beloved companions and showered them with devotion and care.<p>

He had asked Dean about that once. "You take care of your car," Dean had explained, "and it will take care of you." The true reason lay silent, hidden in his heart: A car could not leave you. It could not disappoint or betray. Not like humans. Not like Dean's father.

Not like God.

"You're losing faith," Joshua had told Dean, but faith was not merely lost; it was ripped away and destroyed. Castiel could no longer proclaim _Credo. _He no longer trusted in God. He could no longer believe. He had abandoned Heaven and forsaken his kind to place his trust in Dean and even Sam, weak, flawed humans though they were.

Castiel could see that Dean thought he was doing right, but the path to self-sacrifice was treacherously close to the path of self-destruction, and they looked much the same. Dean's soul was tinged with the blue of determination, but it was shot through with broken shards of gray and jagged spikes of red. Dean was acting from despair instead of hope.

Sam's soul was also blue, but the demon taint within him pulsed and roiled in a sickening gray-green ooze, its tendrils uncoiling, trying to grip tight and strangle, trying to grow. Castiel could never look at Sam for long.

Bobby's soul shone with tiny flickers of many colors, as did most humans. He was sitting in his kitchen now, cleaning guns and talking with Ruth about Sam and Dean and angels. Ruth's soul was ablaze, with a flare of brilliant white that washed all the other colors away.

Castiel took one last look at Dean, who was sitting on the ground with his back against the side of a dirty white van and throwing pebbles at his empty bottle of beer. His expression was moody, and the mood did not look good. Talking would probably not work right now. Castiel went to Bobby's kitchen and stepped out from behind the veil.

Bobby half-swallowed a curse when Castiel appeared. Ruth jerked in surprise and swung her gun to point directly at his head. Seen that way, the barrel of a rifle looked as black and empty as a demon's eye. Interesting.

"It ain't loaded, Ruth," Bobby said dryly. "And it wouldn't work anyway. I've tried."

"Habit," she said as she lowered the gun. "Sorry." She went back to wiping the weapon with a soft white cloth and glanced up at Castiel. "You shouldn't sneak up on people."

"Habit," he replied. Castiel joined Bobby and Ruth at the table. Humans seemed to prefer to talk sitting down. "Your brother's soul is also bright," he reported. "But not so much as yours."

Her hands stopped and her eyes narrowed, a sign of suspicion. "And how do you know that?"

"I just saw him."

"But Nathan's in—" She glanced at Bobby then said, "Teleporting. Right." Ruth set the gun on the table. "Michael told me Nathan's 'vessel' couldn't 'contain' his soul anymore. Is it—"

"Michael spoke to you?" Castiel asked in surprise, for archangels rarely spoke to angels, let alone humans. Except for the Winchesters. And, apparently, their cousins. "In one of your dreams?"

She nodded. "Last week I prayed, and then Michael came in a dream. But when Nathan and I were little, Michael came to our garden. We saw him then; he was all wings and eyes and flame."

Only a few humans could withstand an angel's true presence. Dean could not, though others of his bloodline could. Also, children often saw more clearly than adults. Michael had obviously been preparing the twins for years. But for what? If the male was to have been Michael's vessel, why bother with the female? Perhaps she was intended to be the vessel for another angel. Perhaps she was to have been the mother of children by Sam or Dean. Or perhaps Michael had decided to sire children of his own.

"Please," Ruth said urgently, "how is Nathan? You saw his soul, so it's not gone, right?"

"His vessel is not empty," Castiel reassured her. "But the link between body and soul is … tenuous." The link was hanging in tattered shreds, only a few gossamer lines still connected, instead of the dense interweaving that usually bound body and soul together. Those lines would break soon, and then Nathan's body would die. His soul would ascend to Heaven and find its true home.

Ruth was nodding slowly, her hands holding tight to each other. "Michael wouldn't heal him." She looked at Castiel, her eyes glistening with the tears she had tried to blink away. "Can you?"

"It is beyond my power." Many things were these days. He had cut himself off from Heaven, and he could not heal even Bobby's simple wound. But what Castiel could do, he would. Ruth might prove useful, but not only to him. He needed to thwart Michael's plans, whatever they were.

"But I can give both you and your brother protection," Castiel told her, "so that angels cannot find you unless you call them by name. I have done this for both Dean and Sam."

"It's those Enochian sigils I told you about," Bobby said.

"Yes," she said, standing up, her arms held away from her body. "Go ahead."

Castiel appreciated not having to explain. He stood and placed his hands on her sides. His thumbs barely touched the undersides of her breasts. "This will hurt," he warned her. She shrugged, and he closed his eyes and carved the sigils into her bones, starting low and moving up each rib until her collarbone, then searing her breastbone with the sigils of the sun and the moon.

He let go and stepped back. Ruth's face was pale and her jaw was set, and she was breathing rapidly through her nose. "Go to Nathan," she gritted out, and Castiel went back to the hospital room, did the same to her twin, tasted Nathan's blood, and returned.

Dean was still sitting outside, watching the sun go down. He was still moody. Castiel joined Ruth and Bobby in the kitchen again. This time, she jumped only a little, and the gun had been put away.

"Ruth," Castiel asked, "when did you and Nathan first drink angel blood?"

* * *

><p><strong>Next: the denizens of Heaven take an interest<br>**


	12. Still A Chance

**Still A Chance**

* * *

><p><strong><em>The Garden of Heaven<em>**

* * *

><p>"Michael will be pleased," the Mother says, sensing the shift of the lights inside Dean's soul.<p>

"Lucifer still waits," the Son replies. "It is not yet time."

"True," she agrees, and they start to walk again along the path, arm in arm, for they have chosen human form for now. In her footsteps, tiny white flowers arise, islands of life amid scattered dead leaves. Leaves, still growing, flutter above them as they walk within a cathedral of trees. "Nor has it yet come to pass," she says. "It may never come to pass."

"Humans are not ruled by prophecy," the Son notes. "Such is the Father's gift of free will. Thus the pattern is always changing, always alive." He watches a bird alight upon a branch, feels her warbling song in his heart, and he smiles in delight. She comes to him, feet sharp upon his finger. On his other hand alights a beetle, wings glimmering gold. He brings his hands together, and the bird feasts upon the beetle, one life feeding another. This too is delightful, for the pattern of life must include death, and all are intertwined. "As the garden is always changing."

"True again. Nevertheless, Michael will be pleased. And so," she adds with a careful sigh, "will Zachariah."

Mother and Son exchange a flicker of resigned amusement and exasperation. "Your angels," he observes, "are very proud. It is their undoing."

"It is their salvation," she corrects gently.

The bird on his finger flies away and disappears. "So the Father left them." The pupils of the Son's eyes hold all the vast blackness of space. "To give them room to grow."

"He does love to be surprised." A smile flirts with her lips and eyes as she looks up at the Son. "You surprised him."

"He surprised me." His voice is nearly as deep as the Father's now. He touches a tree trunk, the bark rough under his hand, the sap running just beneath, the heartwood straight-grained and strong. This, too, would die someday. As would he. As would the Father and the Mother and the angels all. The Great Reaper would come for them all.

But Death was not an ending, for nothing ever really ends. The pattern of life and death is eternal, a terrible beauty to be borne.

Still, he is curious about the current twists and bends. "What of Ruth?" he asks. "And the brothers?"

"I will see my daughter soon," the Mother replies. "Dean and Sam have a little farther to go. As for Michael and Lucifer…" She sighs again, a patience born of tragic necessity. "They will have their time together." With a hand dark as earth and warm as sunshine, she reaches out to touch a light pink bud on the tree. In exquisite slowness, the petals unfurl in lovely bloom, pink flushing to scarlet above glossy leaves of dark green.

"And Gabriel?" the Son asks.

She lays a finger on the flower, and the scarlet petals fall one by one, dappling her slender feet with droplets as red as blood. A tiny green fruit swells, ripens to a honey-gold, and falls into her waiting hand. "Gabriel has served us well. He has been away from home too long." She eats the fruit, savoring every bite, then licks dark juice from dark hands. On the tree, other buds wait, tightly furled.

The Mother changes, butterfly bright and beautiful. She lights upon an iris of purple and gold to drink the nectar there. Her wings spread, shimmer and grow until they spread across the sky and merge with the clouds. From there she joins the stars, taking her rightful place upon heaven's throne.

The Son tends the garden. In careful hands he holds the earth, ever living, ever dying, changing all the time.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Ruth finds out more than she expected<br>**_


	13. Blood Lines

_**March 2010, Sioux Falls, South Dakota**_

* * *

><p>Ruth stared at Castiel, trying to make sense of his question about drinking angel blood. "When did we do <em>what<em>?"

"You mean like Sam?" Bobby asked, almost at the same time.

"Not like Sam," Castiel said with disgust. "He drinks demon blood."

"He drinks demon blood?" Ruth repeated in disbelief, but sharing the angel's disgust. Although, drinking angel blood didn't sound all that much better.

"Blood's blood," Bobby said with a shrug, echoing her thoughts. "Ask a vamp."

"Sam drinks from demons like a vampire?" Ruth asked, feeling her stomach knot. This was getting way beyond weird and into sickeningly gross. She was also starting to feel kind of stupid in this conversation.

"No, not like a vampire. I mean, well, he…" Bobby floundered and finally finished with, "He doesn't have fangs."

Right. Ruth found herself imagining other ways—also disturbing and disgusting—to drink demon blood. Were these demons in human form, or did they have horns and tails?

"Anyway," Bobby went on doggedly, "Sam hasn't touched a drop in nearly a year."

"Oh, good," Ruth said, and the words were a fight between sarcasm and real relief.

"He has," Castiel contradicted. "Last month when we confronted Famine, Sam drank demon blood."

"Everybody was doing crazy stuff then. I heard about you and the hamburgers."

"That was temporary," Castiel replied calmly then proclaimed, "Sam is an abomination, and he will carry the taint until he dies."

"It's not Sam's fault that a demon infected him when he was only six months old," Bobby objected.

"No," Castiel agreed, "but it is why Lucifer has claimed him as his own."

"Who?" Ruth asked, trying to get a handle on this conversation that was going way too fast. "And 'his own' what?"

"Lucifer. His own vessel," Castiel said, and when she shook her head, he explained, "Michael and Lucifer plan to fight the Apocalypse using Dean and Sam as their vessels."

Ruth opened her mouth in surprise then shut it with a snap. The Winchesters hadn't mentioned that, either. They had said that Michael and Lucifer would need vessels, but she had been so focused on Michael that she hadn't thought about Lucifer at all.

Lucifer, once known as Samael, bringer of death, the angel who brought souls to God. Lucifer, bringer of light, Prince of Darkness.

Satan.

As Staff Sergeant Zimsky would have said: Welcome to Shitsville, boys and girls. Ruth breathed out slowly, trying to figure out what the hell was going on in this bizarre war.

Castiel had turned to Bobby to observe, "You did not tell her."

They hadn't told her a lot of things. Ruth understood the necessity of "need to know" and keeping intel contained, but you still didn't treat your allies totally like mushrooms.

Bobby was shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "That was Sam's call," he muttered.

"And I'm going to call him on it," Ruth promised. She turned to Castiel and answered his earlier question. "I have never drunk angel blood," she declared. But she had to add, "Not that I remember."

"Maybe she was six months old," Bobby put in. "Like Sam."

"Possibly," Castiel allowed, his eyes narrowing as he examined her—again. Then he disappeared. Again.

"Damn it," both Bobby and Ruth said at the same time. Ruth shoved her chair back and stood. "Hey, Ruth, I'm sorry about not telling you," Bobby began. "But…"

"It's ok," she said, and she took her time pushing her chair back neatly under the table. "Like you said, it was Sam's call." She glanced out the kitchen window as she redid her ponytail. It was getting dark. "I'm heading out, Bobby. I'll be back tomorrow."

Bobby nodded but followed her to the door. "That demon stuff, and Lucifer…," he began then ended with saying simply, "Sam's a good kid. Really."

Ruth nodded. "I know." On her way to her car, she waved to Dean but didn't stop to chat. She wasn't in the mood. Dean probably wasn't, either. Castiel was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

><p>The next day as usual, Ruth got up at six, went running, showered and dressed at her hotel, packed a breakfast then went to Mass. She ate in the car. Today, Ruth stopped at the grocery store on her way to Bobby's house and picked up a few things. The salvage yard and house were quiet, but Dean's black car was parked outside, so that meant Sam had finally arrived.<p>

Ruth found Bobby in the kitchen, talking on one of his many phones. He waved good-morning and pointed to the coffee, so she poured herself a cup and freshened his for him. He hung up the phone as she was unpacking groceries.

"What's with the chow?" Bobby asked. "Tired of tuna fish sandwiches and grilled cheese?"

"I adore your tuna fish sandwiches and grilled cheese," she told him sincerely. "But yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, and it put me in the mood for Irish food." Plus, she'd been kind of rude.

"You Irish?"

"My dad's mom was half Irish and half Italian. She taught me how to cook."

"Corned beef and cabbage?" he asked suspiciously.

Ruth shuddered. She'd never liked that dish. "Hash and soda bread. With spaghetti. And beer, of course."

"Of course," Bobby agreed. "It sounds great. Thanks."

As she got a knife to peel potatoes, she asked, "Where are Sam and Dean?"

"Asleep upstairs. I hope. Sam didn't get in until three, and Dean's not sleeping well these days."

"And Castiel?"

Bobby shrugged. "No idea."

That suited Ruth just fine. She spent the morning either reading old tomes or cooking while Bobby filled her in on some things, and she learned a lot about the coming apocalypse, the four Horsemen, the Winchesters' recent trip to heaven and an absentee God, and what Lucifer could do. It didn't look good.

Sam showed up around eleven, sniffed the air and said, "Wow, does that smell good! Is it ready?"

"Not for an hour or so. There's coffee."

He poured himself a mugful and leaned against a wall, still yawning. "So, double second-cousins, huh?"

"Guess so. At least now we know why Michael chose Nathan."

"Right."

She gave Sam another five seconds to start talking, but all he did was sip at his coffee, so she said, "I didn't know Lucifer had chosen you."

Sam went very still for a second then sat down across from her at the table and stared into his coffee. Finally, he met her eyes. "It's not something I like to talk about."

"I can see why." Ruth had a hard enough time imagining Dean being the vessel of an angel; she sure couldn't imagine Sam as being inhabited by the devil. Even if he did have demon blood in him. He probably didn't like to talk about that, either, so Ruth went for the oblique approach. "Did Bobby tell you Castiel said Nathan and I had angel blood in us?"

"Yeah." His grin was twisted into bitterness, and he lifted his mug to her in a toast. "Guess you lucked out." This time, she waited longer, while Sam drew complicated and meaningless patterns on the table with his forefinger. Finally he gave up on that and explained, "The demon blood made me powerful, Ruth. With it, I could exorcise demons, even kill them. I could save people." He leaned forward a little, his hands open and pleading. "I was taking something evil and using it to do good."

"Can good come evil?" she asked him.

"Can evil come from good?" he shot back.

Ruth had to think about that. "I suppose," she said slowly. "Since God made everything, then he must have made evil, too." She shook her head. "Drinking blood is still disgusting."

Sam almost laughed. "In this job, I've been up to my elbows in entrails. I've disemboweled and beheaded and butchered all kinds of creatures." He shrugged. "After all that, drinking blood doesn't seem so bad."

You could get used to anything, after a while. "How did you get the blood?" Ruth asked, driven by curiosity, and—just possibly—a need to know.

"I had a donor," Sam replied then took his mug and left the kitchen before she could ask anything more.

Ruth followed him onto the porch, letting the screen door slam behind her. Sam was too tall to lean his elbows on the rickety porch railing, so he was leaning his shoulder against a wall again. Ruth stood next to him, and they both stared straight ahead at the piles of old wrecks, lightly dusted with snow. The sky was milky white, and the air was fresh and cold.

"What happened in Blue Earth?" she asked. "To make Dean decide to say yes to Michael?"

Sam let out a slow and careful gust of air. "Dean was already pretty down, after Joshua told us God wouldn't help. Then in Blue Earth, we thought we'd taken out all the demons, but we'd missed one, and it grabbed Dylan. We couldn't save him. He died in Dean's arms."

Ruth closed her eyes, seeing once more the kid she used to take care of, and understanding now why Dean really had cared.

"And he couldn't stop the townspeople from killing Paul," Sam went on. "The body the main demon was using was about eighteen and looked like the girl next door. Dean killed her. That's never easy. And then her dad…"

"I get it," Ruth said. Hammer anyone hard enough and long enough, and they'll break. Or choose death, just to get the pain to stop. "Do you think you'll ever say yes to Lucifer?"

"No way in hell," Sam vowed.

Ruth nodded but said nothing. That was just about what Dean had said, only a few days ago.

* * *

><p>Lunch was a disaster. Oh, the food turned out ok, and people ate it and said nice things about it and asked for more, but nobody had anything much to say. Ruth's one or two questions about their family fell dead. Sam and Bobby were pissed off at Dean, and she was kind of pissed off at the Winchester brothers, and Dean was pissed off at the world.<p>

Then Castiel magically appeared and stood there silently, watching them eat, until Dean said, "Damn it, Cas, stop looming over us like a vulture and pull up a chair." That pissed off Bobby, since it was his house and he was the host. Ruth got up and brought in another chair from the other room for Castiel, since Bobby obviously couldn't and the other three hadn't moved. Castiel sat down, his hands quietly on his lap, and watched them eat from there.

Dean finished quickly, muttered his thanks to Ruth, and slammed his way out the door again. Bobby and Sam sighed, and Castiel magically disappeared. A huge family argument was brewing; Ruth could see the signs. And even if she was a double second-cousin, she wasn't family. "I'm going home after lunch, Bobby," Ruth announced. "I've been gone over a week. I want to see my folks."

"Uh, yeah, sure," Bobby said, sounding a little surprised and a lot relieved. "You're welcome to come back, you hear? When things aren't so…"

"Fucked up?" she offered, and both Sam and Bobby laughed.

"They're always fucked up," Sam said, the smile still lingering on his face, his gaze honest and clear.

He was a handsome man, in a lot of ways. Ruth just wished he would cut his hair.

"I'll do the dishes," Sam told her. "If you go now, you could get home before dark."

Definitely a handsome man. Ruth made her goodbyes: a quick hug with her new-found cousin, and a kiss on the cheek for Bobby, once she'd gotten his hat out of the way. He smelled of whisky and woodsmoke, and his handshake was strong.

"I meant it," he said, holding onto her hand. "You're welcome to come back. Anytime. We got more research to do."

"Right," she agreed. "We're not done yet."

* * *

><p>That night, back at her parents' house, she dreamt of angels dying under leafless trees, stabbed to death with silver blades, killed by Castiel. She recognized him now, even in dreams.<p>

The next day, visiting Nathan in the hospital, she dozed in the chair and dreamed once again.

Castiel was walking cautiously in an echoing, sunless room. With a silver blade, he stabbed an angel in the heart. Then four other angels surrounded him, and all of them had blades. Castiel called to them, luring them closer, then dropped his blade to touch a blood sign on his bare chest. All five disappeared in a blaze of light. The light faded to reveal a room of white and gold, and Sam and another young man were on the floor. Dean stood before an angel, so close it was nearly an embrace, and in his hand was a silver blade.

In a swift upward jab, Dean jammed the blade up through the softness behind the chin, skewering the tongue to the roof of the mouth. The angel broiled alive from the inside. When he fell, his wings became clear, etched in black ash on either side.

Ruth woke, kissed her brother and wiped her tears from both their cheeks, then promised him, "Michael is going to pay." She said goodbye to her parents then headed for Bobby's, because now she knew for sure that angels could die by human hands.

First, she needed that blade.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Michael deals with Castiel<br>**_


	14. Cut the Cord

**The Well of Heaven**

* * *

><p>Michael summons the subjects of Heaven, and they obey. Angels of all forms gather in their ordered choirs. They hover in a great sphere—fiery seraphim with six wings, fierce cherubim of four faces, ophanim with their eyes on the rim of their outer wheel, and the hashmallim with a single pair of wings. At the center of the sphere lies the Well of Heaven, a deep darkness, a hole that cannot be filled.<p>

"We are gathered," Michael announces when all have arrived.

"We are gathered," the choirs of Heaven reply in their tens of thousands, and it as if a mighty wind has rippled across an ocean, raising waves that crash upon a distant shore.

"We touch each other, wingtip to wingtip," Michael proclaimed. "Our fires mingle, we see each other clearly. We taste each other's minds. We know the truth of each other's words."

"We know the truth," the angels echoes, and it is as if a bonfire has flared, spending golden sparks into blackness.

"Let the conclave be bound," Michael calls, and Raphael flies with two swords held wide, circling the outside of the sphere, shifting a little each time, weaving a net of silver fire from the tip of each sword. Raphael reaches the place left open for it, directly across the sphere from Michael, then draws the tips of the two swords together to complete the net of fire and close the door.

"The conclave is begun," Michael, for now the sphere is consecrated. The net cannot be broken, and no angel may leave until the conclave is done. "We are gathered," Michael tells them, "to honor our comrades who are gone. Gazardiel! Call the names."

Gazardiel moves toward the center, closer to the Well, accompanied by four hashmallim. "I call the name Yahoel," Gazardiel calls out, "destroyer of idolaters, guard against the Leviathan, fierce defender of the faith. We taste your essence. We honor you. We bid you farewell."

"Farewell," the thousands echo, and one of the hashmallim opens wide its wings, releasing a bright mist, the grace of Yahoel now unbound. The mist wavers and twists, but moves inexorably toward the Well, slowly at first then faster, circling that darkness. The mist begins to spin, winding itself around itself, forming a globe. The brightness increases, becomes a blaze, a brilliance that etches a line of fire in its wake, showing all the intricate pattern of the dance. The grace whirls, drawn to the Well, spiraling in, tighter and closer, faster and faster, then closer still. Thus it is gone, and only the darkness of the deep remains.

"Farewell," the host of Heaven whispers; then silence reigns.

"I call the name Zachariah," Gazardiel proclaims next. "Sentinel of Heaven, keeper of the fire, warrior of the sword. We taste your essence. We honor you. We bid you farewell." And again the host bids a comrade farewell, another hasmall opens its wings, and another grace blazes in beauty then disappears into the Well.

Two more names follow: Paschar, lover of beauty, guardian of the veil, seeker of dream; and Nemamiah, arbiter of justice, protector of innocents. As each hashmall opens its wings, the angels watch in silence as yet another shining grace spirals away into darkness.

"Farewell," they call softly, and Michael whispers the word yet again. Gazardiel and the hashmallim return to their places, and the paean of praise and farewell rings forth, a tribute to those who are gone.

Silence follows, and it grows, until hashmallim begin to exchange glances and even cherubim rustle their wings. Finally, Michael moves forward, and instantly all is still again. "In this place of endings," Michael begins, "we have bidden our comrades farewell. So we have done in ages past; so we will do in ages to come." The archangel sweeps its gaze across the subjects of Heaven, tasting the essence of each one: their sorrow, their patient solemnity, their curiosity, their rage. "We mourn together, and we will mourn alone.

"Yet now we are gathered, in solemn conclave," Michael proclaims, "to pronounce judgment on the one who is responsible for the deaths of our four companions: the angel Castiel."

Michael returns to its space, and after a respectful time of silence, Haamiah moves forward, both wings spread wide and flames yellow glimmers, a posture of humble questioning. "Do you summon this angel for instruction?"

At a gesture from Michael, the ophan Rehael, inspirer of respect and obedience, responds. "Castiel has been our disciple," Rehael informs the gathering. "Twice." Wings flutter in agitation, and wheels spin faster. Some hide their eyes. "The discipline," Rehael continues grimly, "did not hold."

Raphael speaks next. "Castiel has come between me and a prophet." The tiers of angels murmur in dismay. "Castiel has disobeyed direct orders," Raphael continues. "Castiel has suborned a chosen vessel. This angel has shared Heaven's information with humans, including the banishment sigil, and has interfered in the divine plan. Castiel has killed fellow angels."

Sandalphon, a prince among the seraphim, is driven to exclaim, "Castiel has rebelled!"

Ripples of shock spread wide, for such a charge has not been leveled since Lucifer was cast down. Then Tabbris comes forward, the inner wheel spinning and the fires glowing orange. Michael and Raphael prepare themselves, for this ophan is the guardian of honesty and the arbiter of cause. "I have heard, Raphael," Tabbris begins with delicate politeness, "that you disintegrated Castiel. Is this true?"

"This is true."

"Yet Castiel lives again." The ophan's many eyes are bright, its voice still careful and calm. "I have also heard that Castiel says our Father is the one who restored him to life."

The host bursts into an excited babble, cherubim turning to cherubim in wonder and hashmallim chattering, until Raphael moves forward and touches the two swords together, so that a bolt of lightning slashes across the sphere. "So Castiel says," Raphael replies, each word dripping disdain. "But the Fallen One brought back Castiel."

Mention of their Father brought excitement; mention of their enemy brings utter silence. Michael watches, looking for those who might betray, then remembering their names. They would be dealt with soon.

"So you say," Tabbris says to Raphael. The politeness is complete; Tabbris merely states the obvious. "We have no evidence either way."

All six of Raphael's wings begin to flare outward, but Sandalphon speaks, saying, "We do. We know the Fallen One is released from the cage. We know he encourages disobedience, just as we know our Father would never reward such behavior."

"This is true," Tabbris admits. "But is Castiel working with the Fallen One, or is Castiel an unwitting puppet?"

"Does that matter?" asks a cherub from its eagle face. "Castiel has disobeyed. From what Raphael says, Castiel has allied himself with humans." Its lion face growls, "Castiel stands with them, instead of with us. This angel's allegiance is no longer to Heaven."

Sandalphon comes forward, wonderfully beautiful and immensely tall, and slowly says what is in all their minds: "Castiel is a servant of the Lord no more."

Michael and Raphael wait for dissension, for disagreement, for any murmurs of dismay. But all are silent, and many thousands of eyes are unblinking and calm. Raphael lifts the swords and points both tips at the Well to say, "I call for Castiel to be cast out!"

Cast out, runs the whisper, and thousands of feathers shiver at the words. Cast out, runs the wind, and a few flames nearly die. Cast out, runs the hissing, and some hashmallim close their eyes. Cast out.

Even Lucifer was only cast down.

But still no one speaks in Castiel's favor, and soon the subjects of Heaven become quiet, serene in their righteousness. Tabbris, the arbiter of cause, speaks for them all: "Castiel must be cast out."

Michael briefly shutters all six wings then spreads them wide. "I accept the judgment of the conclave," Michael says humbly, for the throne of Heaven is empty and Michael is regent only, not king. "It shall be so."

Raphael uses a sword to trace a circle in the air, opening a doorway within the veil. A hashmallim reaches in and pulls out a tiny figure by the nape of the neck. Its arms and legs dangle; it has no wings. Castiel is still in human form, a shocking obscenity at an angel conclave.

The doorway closes, and Michael turns to the four angels whom Castiel had defeated and betrayed. "Strip Castiel's vessel," Michael orders. "Then bring it forward."

The angels move with swift eagerness, even glee, and Castiel's garments are torn away. Each angel takes a limb, and the vessel writhes in their grip as they haul with brutal indifference, so that the arms and legs are first twisted, then stretched wide. Smears of blood both old and fresh mark the torso; the cuts of the banishment sigil are carved deep in the skin. Amid the dark patch of hair between its legs dangle dirty pink genitals, a blatant reminder that humans are born with blood and pain, not created from grace and glory. The vessel's lips are bloody. His eyes are fiercely aware.

"Castiel, the Shield of El," Michael begins, "you are no longer worthy of that name. You have broken your oath of fealty to God and his angels. You have chosen humans over Heaven. This conclave has agreed: you are to be cast out."

The naked bloody figure jerks and struggles, his eyes wide and his mouth open, making frantic noises that the watching choirs of angels disregard. They have witnessed human suffering before, and angelic compassion allows no sentiment.

The cherub Rashnu comes forward, holding a thin golden rod. A hashmall follows close behind. The four angels tighten their grip and pull, so that Castiel is stretched between them, unable to move, face down. His head tosses back and forth until Rashnu orders, "Hold it," and the hashmall clamps the head between its hands and keeps it still.

The end of the rod is a sharpened hook, and Rashnu uses the tip to slit open the nape of the neck and peel back flaps of skin, revealing yellowish-white neck bones. The hook slides easily up into the skull, and with a careful twist, it latches onto Castiel's grace. Slowly, Rashnu removes the hook, and it draws with it a silver cord. Rashnu twirls the golden rod, drawing forth more silver cord, spinning living grace into twisted thread.

Castiel spasms and jerks, even with the angels holding him still. His words have become screams, and his lips are bitten through. His fingers and toes begin to contract into claws with bone cracking force, then hang limp and useless. It is as if his entire network of nerves is being drawn out through his spine, scraping its way along muscle and bone. The limbs are next, and then the torso. The grace is thicker now, more like yarn than thread, and the rod is nearly full. Rashnu gives a final twirl, until the cord of grace is stretched and quivering, tethered to the vessel only at the heart.

Castiel is twitching all over. His fingers and toes are crooked and broken, like clusters of bent twigs, and he no longer has the strength to scream. His head hangs limply, and his eyes have closed.

Michael grabs a handful of hair and yanks the head up and back, commanding, "Open your eyes."

The bloody lips twitch then part to reveal bloody teeth. "Don't you know?" Castiel manages to whispers. The vessel is panting, trying to breathe, and the words come out slow. "I don't follow … your orders … anymore."

It is only then that Michael realizes Castiel is smiling. Michael pulls the head back even farther, exposing the throat, stretching tight the skin, making it hard to breathe. Blood pulses there, the veins and arteries fragile and delicate, so easy to shred.

Michael looks into the vessel's eyes, with their layering of white and blue around dark holes. "I do know," Michael says with gentle viciousness. "That is why you are here." Michael leans closer, so that angel fire licks at Castiel's skin. The vessel tastes of pain and rage and defiance, a sour salty tang, bitter and disgusting. "You love these humans so much," Michael hisses, "go live with them. Then die with them."

Michael lets go of the hair and lifts a sword, then saws through the silver cord. The cut is just at the surface of the skin, severing the grace and breaking the link between heaven and this … creature, no longer an angel, no longer a man.

The four angels let go and move back as the vessel convulses, naked and bloody and broken, then finally shudders and goes still. His eyes are glazed, and his breathing is ragged, but he is aware.

Rashnu hands the rod with twisted grace to Michael, who holds it high and proclaims, "Castiel is an angel no more, being without grace and without name. This vessel has no place here; we cast it out."

"We cast it out!" the watching thousands reply, and it is as thunder in the sky.

Again Michael searches their faces, looking for those who show regret or sympathy, who might be moved by this punishment to rebel. The names are noted; they will need watching.

Michael unwinds a length of the silver cord. The tip wavers at first, seeking, until it is drawn to the Well and the line stretches taut. Michael holds the rod level between outstretched hands so that it unwinds on its own, more and more quickly, as the grace is pulled down. Finally, the cord is completely unwound, and the rod is empty.

The free end of the cord whiplashes about, striking Michael's hand before settling into a spin, tracing a whirlpool over the Well. It grows smaller quickly, until the grace that was Castiel disappears into the deep darkness, the hole that cannot be filled.

"We cast it out," Michael says quietly, and the angels say nothing in return. The Outcast closes his eyes. "This conclave is concluded," Michael says. "Raphael, open the gates."

As Raphael slices open the net and the angels stream away, Michael turns back to Raphnu. The cherub has closed the flaps of skin and healed the neck wound and the broken bones. Raphnu tells Michael quietly, "The vessel will survive. It has just enough grace inside it to make up for the lack of a soul." Raphnu takes back the golden rod and departs.

"I want the Outcast alive to watch the Apocalypse," Michael warns the four angels who had lost to Castiel, thus failing in their task to guard the vessel Adam. That Adam is securely in Heaven now makes no difference; Zachariah and Yahoel are dead, and these angels have failed. "When you are finished," Michael instructs, "leave the vessel on Earth somewhere."

"Yes, Michael," they say, sweeping back wings and dimming flames.

"Then each of you will report to Rehael. For discipline."

"But—," one begins then quickly covers all of its eyes with its wings and shutters its flames.

The other three angels had moved away slightly, and they were crouched in the same posture of obeisance. "Yes, Michael," all four angels chorus, obeying Heaven's will, as all angels must do, or else risk Heaven's wrath.

Michael spreads all six wings and flies away, up to the vault of Heaven, its vast blackness sparkling with stars. Below is a blue planet, veiled in white clouds, dragging the weight of its dead moon with it on its yearly circular journey around a yellow star.

After a time, Raphael appears. "That went well."

"Yes," Michael agrees. "Just as we planned." It had been necessary to set an example. It had been gratifying to take that rebellious angel apart. "Yet larger plans go awry. The Fallen One has been walking on Earth for nearly a year."

"But not in its true vessel," Raphael points out, but Michael is staring at the planet with a stillness that is frustration instead of proper angelic serenity, so Raphael suggests, "You could use Ruth, temporarily."

"Ruth will be as tainted as her brother." Nor is she likely to say yes, Michael knows, not after their conversation in her dream. "Adam will be ready soon. They are reconstituting his body again, and then the preparation will begin."

It would not be difficult. The Winchester bloodline has been bred for hundreds of generations, refined and strengthened time and again, all to culminate in the true vessels of Dean and Sam. Those two can contain an archangel, just as they are. Their close kin need only a drop of archangel blood in infancy to prepare them to do the same.

And so, for centuries, all the infants in that line had been so prepared. An angel had descended, carrying a vial of Michael's blood, and placed a drop upon each baby's tongue. The Fallen One had perverted this ritual and made of a mockery of the sacred bond, by feeding Sam Winchester demon blood instead, polluting that vessel forever. Ruth and Nathan had been prepared; the angel Anahita had done its job and given them archangel blood.

But the blood had not been Michael's.

The sacred blood made vessels strong, but strong enough to contain an archangel also meant strong enough to rebel. Michael had had to abandon Nathan, defeated by that puny human's will.

It was not Lucifer's blood, for nothing could pass through that cage. Gabriel might have done it, just for spite or for amusement, but that is unlikely.

Which left Raphael.

Raphael, the quiet one. Always helpful, always supportive, always watching. Never in command. Perhaps Raphael has grown weary of that role. Perhaps some hidden plan has not gone awry? Michael knows that rebellion takes many forms.

"Odd, that the vessels already prepared should not be suitable," Raphael observes.

"Yes," Michael agrees again, resolving to watch this angel more closely. "Odd."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Ruth and Dean disagree<strong>_


	15. Clear Your Heart

**Sunday, 21 March 2010 – Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

* * *

><p>Bobby's personal phone rang on Sunday morning. He'd left it on his desk, and he was in the kitchen next to his bank of other phones on the wall, so he didn't get to it until the fifth ring.<p>

"Morning, Bobby," said Sam's voice.

"Morning, Sam." Bobby wheeled himself one-handed back into the kitchen, going a little crooked but getting through the door. "How's the drive from California?"

"Getting flatter. We just crossed into Nebraska. We should get to your place around dark."

"Good," Bobby said then told him, "Ruth's staying here this weekend. She showed up on Friday night, after some weird dreams about four angels getting knifed. I told her what I could about you and Dean and Castiel trying to get your very-recently-dead brother Adam away from Michael, but she's still got some questions."

"I bet," Sam said. He sounded tired.

"Ask Bobby if he's heard from Cas," came Dean's voice, cutting through distance and engine noise and wind.

Sam started, "Dean said to ask—"

"Yeah, I heard him," Bobby broke in. "The answer's 'no'. Nothing from Adam, either. You?"

"Nothing." There was more engine noise and wind and then some silence, until Sam said, "See you tonight, Bobby."

"Come hungry," Bobby said. "Ruth's in town right now buying food."

"That'll be good," Sam said, while Dean called out, "Tell her I like pie!"

Bobby shook his head in fond exasperation. That boy…

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said. "And tell Ruth thanks, too. We'll see you tonight."

* * *

><p>The boys showed up around seven, driving a truck they'd gotten from God knows where. They said hello then dug into the chili and cornbread and lasagna (one vegetarian and one meat) like there was no tomorrow. And maybe there wouldn't be. Bobby ate hearty, too. There was still plenty left over; Ruth and Bobby had been cooking all day.<p>

"Damn," Dean said in appreciation when Ruth brought out dessert. "Home-made pie." He smiled up at her, a real enough smile but still with a bunch of flirt thrown in.

Bobby wasn't sure Dean even realized; hitting on women was such a habit with him. Ruth seemed to know that; she smiled back at Dean but added an half-amused half-exasperated shake of her head. Bobby knew that feeling well. She handed Bobby the pie server, and he cut generous slices for everybody.

As a true pie connoisseur, Dean closed his eyes for the first bite. "Wow," he said, and this time his smile was pure pleasure. "This is awesome. What is it?"

Ruth's piece was already half gone. "Chocolate mocha chiffon."

"Coffee and chocolate and pie, all in one bite." Dean shook his head and grinned at his plate. "Trifecta perfecta pie."

Sam made some muffled noise of agreement, and Bobby joined in as best he could with his mouth full. There was a crust that kind of melted away on your tongue, leaving a smooth silky chocolate that wasn't too sweet or too gooey, all topped with real whipped cream (none of that squirt stuff from a can) and bittersweet chocolate shavings.

Bobby didn't think that mocha latte cappuccino foamy crap qualified as coffee, not by a long shot, but it made a damn good pie. "Another one of your grandmother's recipe?" Bobby asked.

"No," Ruth said, "Eli's mom taught me how to make it."

"Who's Eli?" Sam asked.

Ruth's fork halted briefly in midair before she said, "My husband."

"Oh," Sam said blankly just as Dean asked, "No shit?"

Bobby had thought that, too, but at least he hadn't said it. Ruth didn't wear a wedding ring, and except for her brother and her folks, she'd never mentioned anybody. "Is he in Iraq?" Bobby asked.

"No." She set her fork down carefully on the side of her plate then looked up to say, "He was buried at Arlington three years ago."

Now it was Dean's turn for a blank, "Oh," while Bobby muttered, "Shit." Dean added a sincere, if kind of awkward, "Sorry," and Sam did, too.

Ruth gave an embarrassed half-smile, half-shrug with a murmur of thanks. She turned to Bobby to explain, "It's not something I like to bring up."

"Yeah, sure," Bobby said right away. He didn't talk about Karen. Sam hardly ever mentioned Madison or Jess. People treated you funny when they knew. "We understand," Bobby told her, and the boys nodded and agreed.

"More pie?" Ruth suggested, not exactly cheerful, but reassuringly matter-of-fact and calm, which Bobby appreciated. "The other one is coconut cream."

"Great!" Bobby said, making it sound hearty. "I love coconut."

Ruth took her time getting the pie, giving herself a chance to regroup. She hadn't meant to mention Eli at all. It got awkward. They guys were quiet when she got back to the table, but they were sneaking glances at her, so she gave them the basics. "His name was Eli Kinsey. He was from Nevada, and he liked basketball and trains. I was twenty-three when we got married, he was twenty-five. He was killed by sniper fire in Fallujah a little over a year later."

That left out nearly everything important about Eli: his beautiful laugh and his dark brown eyes, the way he looked about five years old when he grinned, and his deep voice that made her shiver with desire. He played the trumpet and he loved to dance. They'd talked of going to New Zealand for a real honeymoon and planned on buying a house someday. But Ruth didn't want to bore the guys, and Sam and Dean had a lot going on in their lives. "Anything else you'd like to know?" she asked.

Sam and Dean just kind of looked at each other, and Bobby answered for them all. "Uh… no, I guess not. Not right now."

"Sure, whenever," she said then added, "Really," to make sure they knew that door was open. "I don't mind talking about Eli if people already know," she explained. "But it gets weird once you tell people you're a widow."

"Or an orphan," Dean added, half under his breath, and then cut himself another piece of the chocolate pie.

Yesterday, Bobby had told Ruth about how Sam and Dean's mom had died, split open and pinned like a butterfly to the ceiling. Then Bobby had explained why. Ruth didn't think anybody wanted to talk about that, either.

"So," Sam said, with that fake kind of cheeriness people use to move past awkward moments, "how's the research going?"

Bobby talked some about a Zoroastrian prophecy of a momentous battle between light and dark, and Ruth told a story she'd heard about the archangel Gabriel and the prophet Mohammed. After both pies were half gone, they gathered in the library. Bobby wheeled his chair behind his desk, his usual place, while Dean and Sam leaned against walls then half stood, half sat on chairs, and kept moving around. Ruth didn't blame them; they'd been sitting in a car for the last two days.

Ruth took one of the chairs next to Bobby's desk and finally got to ask the question that had been beating insider her head for the last two days: "Can I see one of those angel blades?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, then Dean pulled a blade from his sleeve and laid it on the desk. In her dream the blade had been dripping and red, but now the silver glowed under the electric lights, and the cutting edge showed a faint golden line. Dean had cleaned it well after his kill.

She picked it up, expecting it to be heavy from what Bobby had said, but it was so well-balanced it felt almost light in her hand. It was symmetric, which would help with throwing, and a comfortable size. The grooved handle was about eight inches long, the blade about twelve. Both sides of the blade were sharp, which made this a dagger instead of a knife, and the fuller ran from near the tip to just above the handle. It seemed all of a piece, the handle and the blade the same material, as if it had been made in mold.

"What are they made of?" she asked, but the brothers just shrugged. "Did it get hot?" she asked Dean, wondering if she should wrap the handle. "When you stabbed Zachariah and he exploded in white fire?"

"No," Dean said. "I wasn't hot, either, and I was standing right in front of the son of a bitch. It's a cold fire."

Weird. But that all this angel stuff was weird. "I'd like to keep this blade," she said.

But Dean shook his head and said, "No. And no matter how much pie you butter me up with, the answer will still be no."

Arrogant bastard. He wasn't why she'd spent the day in the kitchen. Her hand tightened on the knife grip even as she silently repeated Sergeant Zimsky' advice: Stay calm. "You have three—"

"We have one," Dean broke in. "Castiel's knife shattered, and Sam's got taken when Michael beamed the room—and Adam—up to heaven." Dean nodded at the weapon in her hand. "So that's it." He looked directly at Ruth to say, "And that's mine."

She didn't answer, and she didn't let go. And she didn't look away. Dean's green eyes had narrowed just a bit, totally focused on her, but without any trace of flirtation on his improbably handsome face. He was going for the "intense and serious, hovering just on the edge of massive pissed-off-edness" look to try to push her into giving in. Ruth didn't push that easy. "I need a blade," Ruth said.

"Why?" Dean asked her, straight out and simple. "To kill Michael?"

That was the simple answer. "He needs to be stopped."

"And just how do you plan to do that?" Dean asked next.

Ruth knew it wouldn't be easy, but she had some ideas, and Dean had proved it was possible. "You killed Zachariah," she pointed out.

"Because I was freaking lucky," Dean told her. "I got Zachariah so pissed off at me that he wasn't paying attention, and I was close enough to kill him. But like I said, I was lucky." Dean was up now, pacing back and forth in front of Bobby's desk. "Zachariah threw Sam against the wall, and he didn't even touch to him do it. I hit Cas once and damn near broke every bone in my hand. And they're just normal angels."

Dean stopped right in front of her to say, "So you don't have a fucking prayer of getting close enough and being fast enough to hurt an archangel."

Ruth stood up slowly, the blade still in her hand, and took a step to the side of the chair, not backing up, but giving both of them room to move. "Then neither do you."

"Probably not," Dean agreed, biting out the words. "But I know what I'm getting into. And you don't. Because when Michael comes to Earth, he's going to be in a vessel. Somebody's body. A person. And let me tell you, killing somebody with a knife is messy work." He jerked his chin at the knife. "Do you really think you can stab somebody with that?"

Ruth gritted her teeth then let that turn into a smile. "Right now, I could sure stab you." Dean didn't blink. He probably thought she was joking.

"Can you kill Adam," Dean asked next, "a nineteen-year-old kid?"

She'd killed people younger than that, even if she had used a gun instead of a knife.

Dean moved in, close enough that she could have lifted a hand and touched him, close enough so that his breath stirred her hair. Then he asked, each word quiet and hard, "If Michael takes Nathan as his vessel again, can you kill your brother?"

Ruth had a counter for that one, because it was a lot more likely that Lucifer would take Sam. "Can you kill yours?" she demanded.

For one unguarded instant, Dean's eyes were anguished, and his face twisted in an odd mix of frustration and determination. Then he was in control again, but Ruth wished she had never asked the question, because Dean has obviously been asking himself that for a while, and his answer was yes.

"Yes," Sam said, coming forward to stand beside his brother, "he can. Because someday, he may have to. Someday, maybe I'll ask him to."

"Sam—," Dean began, his voice suspiciously husky.

"Or maybe he'll ask me to kill him," Sam went on, "if things go wrong. We take care of each other, no matter what. No matter how. Our dad taught us that, a long time ago."

"It's what hunters do for each other," Bobby put in.

Ruth understood that. You didn't hand the job off to a stranger; you took care of your own. Ruth had spent a lot of time staring at the life support unit in Nathan's room, wondering if she'd have to pull the plug and watch her brother die. She wasn't ready to do that. She wasn't ready to stab him, either. She could kill Adam, and she could kill Dean, but she couldn't kill her brother. Not like that.

Think it through, Sergeant Zimsky had always said, because being angry and doing something stupid is way too fucking easy. So stay calm and think it through. Then be smart.

"Here," Ruth said, and she handed the knife to Dean, hilt first. "You're right."

He looked at her funny for a second before he took the blade, saying, "Glad you're being so reasonable," as he tucked the blade back inside his sleeve.

Ruth shrugged, even while she was trying to swallow bitter frustration and rage. "You had a lot of good reasons." She still wanted to hit something—she wanted to hit Dean—so she took a deep breath and walked away.

In the kitchen, she got a pop from the fridge then stood at the sink and didn't drink it. She had some thinking to do. After a few minutes, Bobby came to the doorway and sat there, watching her. She turned and asked him, "Want a beer?" He just shook his head and kept watching, concerned and quiet, the same way he watched Sam and Dean sometimes. "I'm OK," she told Bobby, and he adjusted the tilt of his baseball hat before he wheeled his chair around.

She walked beside him as they went back into the library. Sam was reading at the desk, and Dean was staring out the window. "Hey, you said Castiel's knife shattered," she said to them. "Did you bring back the pieces?"

"Yeah, I picked 'em up," Sam said. "They're in my bag." He went into the hall then came back with a rolled up white cloth. He placed it on Bobby's desk and carefully opened the cloth—a plain white t-shirt—to show a collection of jagged shards, a few as long as her hand, others as thin and sharp as needles. Perfect.

"I'd like some of the shards," she told them. "I know an engineer who could take a look, maybe figure out what it's made of."

"Yeah, sure," Dean said. "Take 'em all." He rolled them back up and handed the bundle to her.

"Thanks, Dean," she said, meaning it totally, trying to respond in kind to his peace offering.

Dean's grin was crooked and well-practiced, but this time it was charming, because this time it was real. "You're welcome."

* * *

><p>Ruth drove to Ohio and left the broken bits of dagger with Hank, an engineer she'd met at work. He frowned at the shards, but it was a happy, thoughtful frown. "I think I can do what you want," he told her, squinting as he held a shard up to the light. "I'll need to do some tests. If it works, it'll take at least a week. Maybe two." He was setting up equipment and humming the theme to the Twilight Zone as she left.<p>

Ruth got back to her folks' house in Minnesota late on Wednesday and went straight to bed. The next morning at breakfast, her mom said, "They're moving Nathan to an assisted care facility today." Her smile was determined and cheerful. "He'll be closer, and it's not so expensive."

And the doctors had given up hope. No surprise there. Ruth finished her pancakes then spent the day with her family. "Any more news from that specialist who wanted our genealogy?" her dad asked as they followed the ambulance that was transporting Nathan.

"Not yet," Ruth said. "He was looking into a similar case in Maine."

Her dad grunted and said nothing more. That night, Ruth watched a hockey game with Nathan in his new room, narrating it for him since he couldn't see. On her way home, she had to pull over twice to wipe away tears.

The days went by. Nothing changed. On the last day of March, she called Bobby, who said the Winchester boys were on their way back from a job near Akron. "Anything new?" she asked.

"No."

Ruth set down the phone and got her gear. "More target practice, honey?" her mom asked as Ruth went through the kitchen toward the back yard. "Archery's good for your arm, I'm sure."

"Great therapy," Ruth agreed. Both for her arm and her frustration. And bows were a lot quieter than guns, so the neighbors didn't complain. Ruth strapped on her arm guard, leaned her quiver upright against the picnic table, and strung the bow. She nocked the arrow with the turkey feather fletching, and held the bow low, against her leg.

She breathed in, breathed out, and breathed in again, steadying her body and her mind. The air was damp and raw with the ragged edge of winter. The wind was slight. The target was eight paces away. She breathed in and lifted the bow, holding it steady with the right hand and pulling the string back with her left. Swift and smooth and easy, then let the arrow fly. Then another and another and another and another, a full handful to nock and lift and release.

The flight of five arrows flew to the target, the first hitting in the gold near the center and the other four spaced around it in the blue ring. Not equally spaced, though, and not in the innermost ring. Ruth retrieved her arrows and shot again. And again and again and again. She stopped only when it was too dark to see.

She didn't have much time left.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Next: Gabriel and Lucifer in Elysium Fields<em>**


	16. Resurrection

**Resurrection**

* * *

><p><strong>Elysium Fields<strong>

* * *

><p>Gabriel hadn't been invited to the party, but he decided to go anyway. He would come in costume, as befitted Loki the Trickster. No matter that his costume was <em>being <em>Loki the Trickster. At least, it used to be a costume.

After all these centuries, he wasn't always sure where Loki stopped and Gabriel began. Or rather, "where Gabriel stopped and Loki began" because Loki didn't stop for much of anything. Or anyone. Angels had to play by different rules.

Which was precisely why Gabriel had left Heaven, with its choirs of seraphim and serried ranks of cherubim, with its sky gloriously aglow with the iridescence of mother-of-pearl, with its eternal whirling stars of ineffable beauty, where everything always happened according to plan.

After all that stultifying perfection, he would have killed for a bit of chaos. In fact, he had.

"But that was long ago and in another country, and besides, the wench is dead," Gabriel murmured as he stepped out from behind the veil into the lobby of a hotel, which was also in costume for the occasion. Retro chic from half a century before, all gleaming chrome and slick plastic and even a bar called the Astro Lounge. Mercury had been having fun fixing up the place.

Just last night, it had been a mess, an abandoned hotel outside a dying town. This party of the gods was being held in the middle of nowhere, as it had to be. Divinities tended to be nervous about being on someone else's holy ground, so nowhere was the place to be.

Or not to be.

Or whatever. Gabriel followed the sound of voices toward a pair of closed doors then eavesdropped angel-style. Kali, dominatrix supreme, was dominating the "grand ballroom." Gabriel smiled. Ah, Kali, with her dark beauty and flashing eyes and her belt of tiny, tinkling skulls. And her many, many hands. Some of which, true, she used to crush men's skulls like eggs. But that was her nature, and he had always liked strong women. Dangerous women. He hated safe.

Ganesh had a seat at the table in there, along with the Baron Samedi and Odin and Eostre and half a dozen others, including that annoying little sprig of light, Baldur. The Winchesters were there. Of course. Everything was all about them these days.

Kali, no surprise, was urging violence. Angels were violent creatures, and so was she. "This all ends in blood," she warned, with undeniable accuracy. "It's them or us."

Mercury cautiously offered a suggestion: "We haven't even tried talking with them yet."

Kali was entertaining no notions from the peanut gallery. She started with blood, setting Mercury to gagging on his.

Gabriel decided it was time to make his entrance. A grand one, of course. He pushed aside the doors (Look, Ma! No hands!) and walked in with all the smarmy enthusiasm of a used car salesman, asking the assorted deities: "Can't we all just get along?"

With a flick of his fingers, he silenced the startled Winchesters. They talked way too much. And they knew his angel name. But he had to give them some clue, or they'd screw it all up. "Sam! Dean!" he greeted them, still cheerful but giving them a warning glance as he walked past. "It's always 'wrong place, worst time' with you muttonheads, huh?"

Then he faced the tableful of gods, who were also startled and (mostly) not pleased. "Loki," Baldur began, with all the menace of a beribboned Pekinese, and blathered on for a bit.

Gabriel didn't listen. The apocalypse was nigh, the Winchester brothers were about to be offered up as swamp bait, and Kali was watching. Gabriel lifted the brothers to another room and calmed things down a bit between Mercury and Kali by reminding everyone: "Talking can always include lies."

Then he went to talk to the brothers. They were bothered and bewildered, so Gabriel gave them the lay of the land. They were either going to be offered as bait, bribe, or sacrifice, but it didn't really matter, because Lucifer would turn these gods into chunky finger-paint if they bothered him.

The brothers didn't like it. "Zap us out of here!" Dean suggested.

"You're tethered," Gabriel told them. "Kali has a blood spell on you."

She had a different kind of spell on him. While the Winchesters went to play the hero and rescue people, Gabriel went to pay his respects to the goddess. He offered her a rose, blood-red.

She took it. And then she took his blood. "You're bound to me," she told him. "Now and forever."

He knew that already. Blood bound them all, from the beginning to the end, and this had started long ago. But, "This cycle is about to end," she said. "Nothing will survive unchanged."

Later, when he was trying to convince the gods to give up on killing the devil, she sat on his lap and took his sword. She called him Gabriel in front of everyone. Then she whispered, "I'm sorry," and stabbed him in the heart.

Gabriel had been expecting that. He put on a light show to convince the gods of his demise then left his decoy body behind and waited in the black Impala for the Winchesters to appear. It took a while; Dean was giving the gods a pep talk about killing Lucifer. Pretty good, actually. Almost inspiring.

Almost.

When Dean came to the car, he kept up the spiel, first trying faithfulness: "These gods are like your family!" then guilt: "We're going to die without your help."

They'd die with his help, too. "I can't kill my brother," Gabriel said.  
><em><br>_"Can't?" Dean challenged. "Or won't?"

Both, actually. Not unlike Dean himself.

"Thought so," Dean said with some disgust then left Gabriel sitting in the car, going nowhere.

Gabriel started listening in again, just in time to hear Dean rat him out to the gods. Sneaky little bastard. Gabriel grinned. He liked that in a person.

Then Mercury (another sneaky little bastard) ratted them all out to Lucifer, and big brother came a-winging.

"Damn it all to hell," Gabriel swore, but he needn't have bothered. Hell was happening here and now. Lucifer snapped Mercury's neck, crushed Odin beneath his feet, and splattered the walls with the blood of the Baron and Ganesh. Baldur was next, shredded from the inside.

In the grand ballroom, Kali faced Lucifer, alone and unafraid. With the terrible beauty of a volcano, she lashed out at him with fire. Flames flowed from her heart and streamed from her fingertips, searing the air.

But archangels were seraphim, elemental beings of fire, and Lucifer smiled through it all. Then he knocked Kali to the floor and prepared to crush her to death. She looked up at him, her eyes dazed and glassy.

Gabriel took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. Clearly, this was his cue to play the hero. He girded his loins (metaphorically, since he was wearing boxers (bright red and decorated with dancing flamingos)) and popped into the ballroom. "Guard this with your life," he hissed to Dean, handing over the brand-new (and very enjoyable) video, then popped sideways a few feet just in time to catch Lucifer off balance. Gabriel got in a good one and slammed his older brother across the room and through the doors.

Damn, that felt good. "Lucy, I'm home!" Gabriel announced, pulling out his angel blade. He gave Kali a hand (so to speak) and pulled her to her feet. Not that she needed help, but it was always good to feel her skin against his. She pressed against him briefly in farewell, and her eyes were as dark and deep as Heaven's well. Soon, those eyes promised.

Yet first this must be.

Gabriel shuddered. He wasn't used to the clammy touch of fear. He wasn't used to dread. But he had agreed with her earlier: this must be.

"Guys!" Gabriel called to Sam and Dean, knowing they would respond like the heroes they were. "Get her out of here!" he said, even as he looked at Kali and thought: Get them out of here!

Her last flashing glance was her promise, and then she and the boys were gone. Gabriel faced Lucifer alone, blade in hand. That fear was icy now.

Yet this must be.

* * *

><p>Sam and Dean hurried Kali out of the hotel, but she balked at the parking lot. "I'm not getting in that thing," she declared when she saw the Impala, black and gleaming under the lights.<p>

"Just get in the car, Princess," Dean ordered, trying not to growl, and as soon as she got in the back seat they slammed the doors and took off into the darkness. The highway in front of them was straight and flat and empty, and Dean pressed the accelerator down. His baby purred in eager response and the miles fell away.

They were doing eighty-five when Sam asked, "Do you think Gabriel—"

"He'll be fine," Dean said, hoping that was true. "He's always got a plan."

"But maybe—," Sam started.

"He has a plan," Kali interrupted from the back seat.

"See?" Dean asked. "Gabriel's got a plan. And so do we: get the hell out of Dodge." And watch the video Gabriel had given to him, but Dean didn't want to mention it in front of Miss Divinity.

"The hotel was in a place you call Muncie," Kali said. "Not Dodge."

Dean felt like banging his head on the steering wheel. Yet another heavenly being who took everything literally and so didn't get anything. Though Castiel had been getting better at figuring out the "nonsensical human lies", as he called them.

Was getting better, Dean corrected himself. Not "had been". Was. Just because they hadn't seen or heard from Castiel for twelve days didn't mean he wasn't ok. Castiel probably had a plan, too. Just like Gabriel. They had to have plans.

A road sign flashed past them, white letters marching across green. Dean focused too late to read it.

"We're going south on highway 69 again," Sam told him.

Somehow, the name of the highway wasn't as funny as it had been earlier that evening. Dean just nodded.

"Where are you going?" Kali asked next.

"Away from here," Dean muttered.

"Maybe Dodge," Sam suggested, trying for a joke, and then the world tilted and disappeared.

"Shit!" Dean snarled as another road sign zipped past, because now they were going north on Highway 283, and Dodge City was only five miles away, which meant Muncie something like a thousand miles to the east. And their passenger was gone.

"Well, Toto," Sam said after a moment, "I don't think we're in Indiana anymore."

* * *

><p>Kali set the Winchesters on another road then went back to the hotel. Eostre was waiting outside, green and gold and lovely. "Sister," they named each other, reaching out eagerly, discarding the garments they wore. Their fingers intertwined, and lips pressed against lips, thigh against thigh, breast against breast. Black and golden tresses flowed over dark skin and pale skin alike. They shared the breath of death and the breath of life, these two goddesses made of fire and water and earth and air, merging and mingling until there was only the one Goddess, the Mother, she of nine million names.<p>

In the hall of heroes, the angels still fought, though death was near. The Mother watched with silent patience and knowing dread, for this must come to be.

"I know where your heart truly lies," Lucifer said to his brother, then slid the blade up into Gabriel's chest, slicing through muscle and tissue and bone. Gabriel gagged and choked on pain, no longer able to breathe. The Mother stayed with him, feeling what he felt, dying as he died. She owed him that. She had brought him to this path.

"Don't forget," Lucifer said softly, almost gently, "you learned all your tricks from me, little brother."

Lucifer twisted the blade, cutting apart the skeins that bound an angel's grace to its vessel, shredding the bond of blood. Gabriel was screaming now, his eyeballs boiling, his tongue broiling. Wing bones charred and shattered as his feathers smoked to ash and dust, for this death was real.

The Mother died with him, living that agony, going with him into the darkness and pain. The young woman named Ruth, caught in the dreamworld and bound to Gabriel, shared in his death and wept in her sleep, her nails digging deep into her palms. She woke in terror, shaking, blood on her hands.

The Mother came once again into the light, with skin white as milk and hair the deep rich gold of the heart of an egg. The palms of her hands and the soles of her feet were dyed red. Stars were beneath her feet and about her head, and she was clothed in all the hidden colors of the rain. She spread her cloak wide, an arc across the sky, gathering the silver gossamer cloud that had once been Gabriel, and she took it with her to the heavenly realm.

There she took a silver rod and slid one end into the center of a heavy disk, embossed with a golden moon on one side and a silver sun upon the other. Reaching up with one hand to gather grace from the air, she gave the rod a twirl, and spun the silver thread anew. Swift and rippling, like water from a jar, the thread flowed from between her fingers, and she coiled it about the silver rod.

And when the thread was long enough, she unwound it from the spindle, a heavy skein pulled taut between her outstretched hands. She took it to the fire of a star and then she started to move. With song and dance and the movement of her hands, she wove a being of light, a seraph of fire and grace, an angel of the Lady.

When it was done, she brought them to the orchard of Heaven and laid two fingers upon the angel's brow. "Gabriel," she said in greeting.

The angel woke and knelt before her, all six wings spread wide, then looked up, tiny flames dancing with humor and joy. "The plan worked?"

"It worked," she agreed. "Lucifer—and Michael and Raphael—all believe you died."

The angel shuddered as it stood, a thousand silver eyes going grey. "I did." Then the merriness returned. "But Lucifer's been away a long time. I didn't learn _all_ my tricks from him." A brief flutter of wings shivered the leaves on the trees. "Or from you."

Suddenly Gabriel stretched and spun, catching the air, flying above the trees, and she grew wings and joined him, laughing. They soared above Heaven's golden fountain then flew, wingtip to wingtip, in a bright and endless sky.

Finally, they landed, standing upon a mountain top of ice. Gabriel was serious now, looking down to the planet of white and blue. "I'll miss it."

She did not disagree, for she was Kali now, with hair of night and lips of blood, and the ending of things was her domain. "This cycle is nearly over," she reminded Gabriel. "Destruction must come."

The silver eyes stayed fixed on the planet below. "And my brothers?"

She shook her head, slowly, and the chain of tiny skulls she wore chimed with the weeping of stars.

* * *

><p><strong>Thursday, 1 April 2010 – Sioux Falls<strong>

* * *

><p>Ruth and Sam and Dean all arrived at dinner time, and Bobby opened another can of tomato soup. Nobody seemed very hungry.<p>

"So Gabriel's really dead," Bobby said, breaking a cracker into four little squares. He shook his head as he dusted the crumbs from his palms. "Seems like a Trickster who dies on April's Fool's Day is just playing one more trick."

Dean shrugged. "We saw his 'last will and video.'"

"And I saw him die," Ruth said. Her palms still stung with pain. She'd woken up freaking out, because this dream had been a lot worse than the others. She'd_ felt _ that sword in her heart. She'd heard her own eyeballs sizzle and pop. So she'd driven to Bobby's looking for answers, and found the Winchesters there with the story of a road trip from hell. Archangels must die harder than normal angels. But maybe if she was awake when Lucifer and Michael died, it wouldn't hurt.

"Kali said Gabriel had a plan," Sam said. "I never thought his plan would be to…"

"He did tell us how to put Lucifer back in his cage," Dean said. "So, now we have a plan: get the other two Horsemen's rings."

"That's a goal," Ruth pointed out. "What's your plan?"

"Find Pestilence," Dean said.

That was another goal, but Ruth didn't say anything this time. Bobby had said Dean liked to make things up as he went along. Eli had been the same. "Hey, this Sunday's Easter," Ruth said suddenly. "Would you all like to come to my folks' house? For a meet-the-long-lost-family dinner? You, too, Bobby."

"Uh…"

That was Dean. Sam didn't look any more excited, and Bobby had the frozen stare of an armadillo in the headlights. "No big deal," she said, backpeddling both her invitation and her sudden burst of family feeling, wishing she hadn't said anything. "Just food."

"Thanks, but … we ought to get started on finding Pestilence," Sam said.

"Sure," Ruth agreed.

"We're not real big on church holidays," Dean explained.

"Me, neither," Bobby added.

"That's fine," Ruth said, and really, it was. She knew they thought her going to Mass every day was weird. And they weren't really family. She shouldn't have said anything.

So the next morning she said goodbye and she went back home. Her package from Ohio arrived on Saturday afternoon, along with about five pages from Hank that had drawings and words like "metallic glass amorphous structure" and "electron valence shells." High school chemistry had been a long time ago. Ruth set the letter aside and got out her archery gear.

"Those are pretty arrows," Mom said as Ruth walked through the kitchen. "Are they new?"

"Yes, Hank made them for me," Ruth explained. Out of the shards of an angel's blade. She had a throwing knife and some darts, too. She cut her finger on the arrowhead, they were that sharp, and they flew straight and true, singing through the air.

Dean had been right. She wasn't fast enough or strong enough to kill an angel up close and personal. But maybe she could kill one from far away. It was time. Six weeks since Michael had taken Nathan and dropped him, all of Lent. Now it was spring again. On Sunday morning, Ruth put on a dress for the first time in ages and went to Mass with her mom and dad. The church was laden with flowers on Easter morn.

"The body of Christ," the priest intoned.

"Amen," Ruth replied, holding out her hands to receive communion.

The cup was offered next, and her hands trembled a little as she took it. She knew now why she felt stronger after daily Mass, why Castiel had said her soul shone. She wasn't drinking demon blood or angel blood. She didn't need a donor.

She had a savior.

"Amen," Ruth said, and drank deeply of the blood of Christ.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Next: Castiel returns with a score to settle<br>_**


	17. Return

**Return**

* * *

><p>Castiel had long ago lost track of time. There was light, and there was darkness. There was heat, and there was cold. There was hunger and thirst and weariness. Rarely—blessedly—there was sleep. But mostly, there was pain.<p>

Agonizing, brutal, exhausting pain.

Angels could be inventive. And curious. Orifiel, one of Zachariah's hounds, liked to remove internal organs one at a time, then put them back and heal the vessel before trying again. Jamareah seemed fascinated with peeling off fingernails. Zuphlas liked fire, and eyes. Sraosha could spend an hour sharpening a blade.

Often they took separate turns, but sometimes they worked in pairs, and occasionally they all joined in. "There's a human game named soccer," Zuphlas had said to the others. "The outcast's vessel could be the ball." They'd trussed him tightly, with knees to chest and hands below ankles, then begun to play. The first kick had broken three ribs. The last that he remembered had shattered his skull. Castiel didn't know who had won the game.

They healed his vessel enough to wake him; then they hung him from a hook and left him to dangle. For days.

Pain, Castiel discovered during that ordeal , traveled in different ways. Sometimes it came in waves of heat or cold, washing over you and leaving you gasping for air. Sometimes it bubbled through you, little sparks of heat here and there, before exploding and ripping you open from the inside. Sometimes it sliced its way along your veins, pulsing with every heartbeat, burrowing deeper with every gasp, until you didn't want to breathe.

Castiel couldn't count how often his vessel had died. It didn't matter. They just healed it and started again.

Recently, Orifiel had removed the digestive system. The results weren't nearly as dramatic or immediate as removing lungs, and Orifiel, despite angelic patience, seemed disappointed. Castiel closed his eyes and refused to think of food or, worse, of water.

An eternity later, when Castiel's lips were cracked and his eyelids scraped rather than soothed, Jamareah arrived and announced, "We have been summoned to return."

Orifiel's wings twitched in annoyance. "I was almost done."

Which, Castiel knew, meant he was almost dead. He had been ready to die for a while, but the vessel was stubborn.

Jamareah's wings swept up then down, and Castiel shuddered as the wave of cold air clawed across his naked skin. "We have been summoned," Jamareah repeated, in a voice as cold as that wind. "Finish this."

Yes, Castiel thought. Finish it. Maybe he could finally, truly die. Maybe they would kill the vessel and leave it to rot. Maybe he could finally let go.

But Orifiel repaired Castiel's vessel, erasing any vestiges of pain or hunger or thirst. It wasn't over yet. Castiel was still tired, so he kept his eyes closed and didn't move. Maybe they would let him sleep.

Instead, Jamareah picked him up by the ankle, saying, "We have to drop this on Earth somewhere," and then they were soaring, Castiel hanging head down. The cold air pinched and bit. Castiel opened his eyes a mere slit. Below them lay a sea of wrinkled blue.

"It has come?" Orifiel asked, sounding eager.

"Soon," Jamareah answered. "Michael's vessel has said yes." Then Jamareah let go.

As Castiel was falling, head first toward the sea, he realized that pain did not have to come from the body. Anguish and hopelessness came from the soul.

He had truly lost everything now. Dean had given in.

* * *

><p>More time passed, a haze of flickering lights and jabbering voices that swelled and disappeared, urgently asking questions Castiel did not understand, demanding answers he could not give.<p>

"I do not know," he tried to say, but he had no tongue.

Pain came again, breaking against him like waves upon a shore, dragging him out farther and deeper, leaving him gasping and drowning in agony. He could not swim. He had feet and hands but no legs or arms. Orifiel hadn't put him back together right.

Castiel sank deeper, helpless, with little feeble motions like the wriggling of grubs.

"What is your name?" the jabbering voices asked, first on this side, then the other.

He had no name. He had no voice. Those had been taken, too. "Don't step on the ants," he wanted to tell them, for it was important—ants were important—but the voices jabbered on, high and petulant, and Castiel sank deeper, and the voices went away.

Later, the lights flickered blue. Deep clanging bells, unceasing and inexorable. He counted: twenty-three hundred and fifty-eight.

The voice came again, female in tone. "Who are you?"

He was outcast. He was no one. He was nothing. He did not exist.

"Who do you serve?"

Castiel had no answer. He had been cast out, and was an angel of the Lord no more. Angels could not serve man.

"What do you want?"

No one asked an angel that. Angels obeyed. Though once, in a grove of mighty trees, as he walked with Uriel through thickly growing ferns, Uriel had declared he wanted to kill.

And a century ago, on the rampart of the garrison, he had stood with Anna. "Have you ever wondered," Anna had asked, "what it would be like to choose?"

"No," Castiel had answered with the purity and honesty of the innocent, of the ignorant, and thought of it no more. Not until Anna stripped out her own grace and leapt from Heaven of her own free will.

"What do you choose?" and now the voice sounded like Anna, close by.

He had chosen to disobey. He had chosen to help Dean and Sam. He had chosen his own path. Castiel answered, finding his voice at last: "Freedom."

* * *

><p>He was rising, empty and weightless. He was floating, numb and disconnected. Hands and feet. Arms and legs. He could not move them. He could not feel them. Maybe they were gone.<p>

He did have a tongue. That he could move, a little. His mouth felt as if it were stuffed with dryer lint. His eyelids were stuck together, but the darkness had golden areas, and he could turn his head to the light. Cool wetness touched his forehead, his cheek, his lips, his chin. The hands were gentle. The place was warm.

Castiel slept.

* * *

><p>He woke in a plain white room. Tubes were in his nose. Needles were in his arms. His vessel did have arms, and legs and hands and feet. Even all the fingers and toes were there. That was good. A woman in loose pink clothing looked at him with surprise, and then there were many people talking and much poking and prodding. Castiel slept when he could.<p>

When he woke again, he was in a yellow room with windows, and the tubes and needles were gone. A TV stared at him from the corner with a grey lidless eye. Later, a woman with silver hair came into the room without knocking and sat on a chair next to the bed. Her clothes were light green. She seemed friendly, but her smile did not reach her eyes. Castiel could not sense anything of her soul. He could not see any colors about her or feel her mood or reach her mind.

He was deaf and dumb and blind. "Go live with humans," Michael had said. Go be one. Now Castiel was on Earth in a human vessel—powerless, hungry, and in pain. The apocalypse was coming, because Dean had given in.

Castiel was not surprised, and he was not angry with Dean, not anymore. Dean had been broken by exquisitely placed blows. Death and guilt, honor and shame, despair and heroism, sheer bloody stupid stubbornness … Zachariah had twisted all of those into a rope and wound them around Dean, pulling tighter and tighter, until Dean put the noose around his own neck and handed the end to Michael.

Castiel could understand that. He himself had been ready to die not long before. But Sam had believed that his older brother would resist, and that thought—that shred of hope—had been all Castiel had to hold onto in the haze of endless pain.

But that hope was gone, and so was Dean. If Castiel ever saw Dean again, Michael would be looking out from those green eyes. Michael would be the one to smile. And even if Michael abandoned the vessel, Dean would never again watch a woman, never tell one of his incomprehensible jokes, never lavish love on his car. Dean was gone.

Castiel's eyes began to sting, and he blinked to try to soothe them. Droplets of moisture slowly rolled down his temples and into his hair. Odd, the room did not feel hot enough to cause his vessel to sweat.

"Can you tell me your name?" the woman sitting next to his bed asked.

Michael had taken Castiel's grace and Michael had banished him from Heaven, but Michael could not take his name.

"I am Castiel."

* * *

><p>A day and a night passed, and the poking and prodding happened several more times. Castiel sometimes wondered if he should call Sam or maybe Bobby, but then that thought would float away. He slept a great deal. His cheek was tender and he had a cut above one eye. His ribs were sore, and his thigh had a jagged gash down the outside.<p>

"You landed hard," explained a nurse as he prepared a needle. His nametag read Jocko. "On a shrimp boat in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. We think maybe you got pushed out of a plane?"

Castiel just looked at him blankly. He had found that handled most situations with humans, and it worked again.

"No memories. Right." Jocko put on the fake cheerful face all the nurses wore. "Roll over," he said, and Castiel painfully turned to one side. "It's a miracle you survived," Jocko said as the needle went into the left buttock.

No miracle. Michael wanted him alive, to be a witness to the end. Castiel's eyes were watering again. This time he recognized them as tears. He'd sometimes wondered what it was like to cry. He'd never thought it would hurt so much on the inside.

A different nurse came the next day, a woman this time. Her clothing was blue with little rainbows, and her nametag said Maria. She shut the door and drew the curtain around the bed. Castiel sighed and prepared himself to be prodded again.

But Maria simply looked at him then said, "You should call him."

His blank look of incomprehension came all on its own. "Who?"

"Dean Winchester." She smiled a little as she said the name.

Castiel went very still, peering at her for demon sign and wishing frantically he could sense the essence of beings. Bodies only disguised. This body had brown eyes and skin, and its hair was black and long, held in place by a red butterfly clip at the back of the head. Castiel smelled nothing odd, but that meant little. He'd never bothered much with the vessel's sense of smell before.

"Christo," he proclaimed, for that word could reveal a demon, but the other being smiled and repeated the word in Enochian, the language of Heaven. "What are you?" he demanded.

"A messenger."

Angels were messengers of the Lord. He did not recognize this vessel and he could not taste its essence. "Who are you?"

"Maria will work," she said with a glance at her name tag.

Castiel did not pursue it. Names could be dangerous to know. "Dean Winchester is … gone," he told her, and his eyes were stinging again. "Michael—"

"Michael's vessel is Adam," she interrupted. "Dean said no."

"Dean said no," Castiel repeated slowly, tasting the truth of those words. The tears still came, but they did not hurt now. Instead, he felt … light. Good. Full of joy. He had not known humans could experience that bliss. "Dean said no," he said to himself, savoring the relief.

"Just before he killed Zachariah."

"He killed—" Castiel stopped short then laughed aloud. Laughter felt good, too, even if it did hurt his ribs. His cheek hurt, too, from the smiling. Castiel did not care. Dean was alive and definitely kicking. "Zachariah must have been … outraged." Dean would probably say "mortally offended" and then start laughing at his own joke. "When?" Castiel asked, because now it mattered what day it was.

"Twenty-seven days ago."

His time with the four angels had seemed longer. "Yes," Castiel said. "I will call."

"I'll help, if I can," Maria said then laid two fingers on his brow. Castiel closed his eyes. Her touch was gentle and warm, and heat flowed through him, taking away some of his pain.

"Be careful," she said, and then she was gone, with a quiet rush of wings. The air tasted of cinnamon and sunshine.

Castiel asked one of the humans for a phone and then pressed the buttons to reach Dean. He answered, sounding surprised and annoyed and relieved all at the same time, and Castiel told Dean of his hospital stay and his condition. Dean asked for details, but Castiel did not oblige. Other things were more important.

"You said 'no' to Michael," Castiel began. "I owe you an apology."

"Cas, I…" Dean cleared his throat. "It's OK."

It was not "OK." Castiel had erred. "You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man that I believed you to be," Castiel said earnestly, wanting Dean to taste the truth of those words.

After a moment, Dean said, "Thank you."

The words sounded clipped off and tight, the way Dean sounded when he has trying not to cry.

"I appreciate that," Dean continued.

Castiel was pleased. He had communicated well, and his apology had been accepted. "You're welcome."

* * *

><p>That afternoon, Castiel left the hospital and managed to find a bus going north. The Winchesters were on their way to Iowa to get the ring of Pestilence, one of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and Castiel was going to help Dean and Sam, in whatever way he could.<p>

Thirty-seven hours later, when Castiel arrived, he knew had been right to come. The brothers needed him. Pestilence had infected them with noxious diseases, and they were in no condition to fight. He infected Castiel's vessel, too, so that his skin felt clammy and cold, and blood bubbled from his lungs into his mouth.

"Not a speck of angel in you, is there?" Pestilence gloated.

Orifiel had said much the same: apostate, traitor, collaborator … human. Castiel had ignored the angel, and he could ignore the Horseman, too. The illness was trivial; Castiel was no stranger to pain. He bent forward as if in anguish, but then kept moving forward, picking up the knife from the floor and rushing at Pestilence, immobilizing the hand with a harsh grip and sawing through the finger joint just below the ring. Blood spurted as Pestilence howled in pain.

Castiel felt a smile blossom within. "Maybe just a speck."

* * *

><p>"The plan is from Gabriel," Dean explained as he drove them back to Bobby's house. Castiel had the back seat to himself. "Once we get all four rings of the Horsemen," Dean continued, "we can use them like a key and lock Lucifer back in his cage."<p>

"If he is in it," Castiel pointed out.

"Yeah," Sam muttered. "If."

Castiel looked out the car window at the empty fields of damp, bare earth. On the bus ride from Louisiana, the earth had been tinged with the green of spring, but here in Iowa the earth was still brown. Getting Lucifer in the cage would not be easy, but it was a plan with possibilities.

Castiel closed his eyes and began to plan his revenge.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Next: Crowley makes deals<br>_**


	18. Author, Angel, Demon

**Monday, 19 April 2010 – Madelia, Minnesota**

* * *

><p>"Ruth, would you bring up the roasting pan from the basement?" her mom asked after lunch. "It should be in one of the boxes on the shelves near the dryer."<p>

"Sure," Ruth said, setting down her soda on the kitchen table. She trotted down the basement stairs. Four boxes had been labeled "Kitchen" by the movers, and Ruth started with the two on the bottom shelf. In the second box she checked she found neatly folded kitchen towels, and under them were paperbacks, about half of them all the same size with the same black binding and same type of lettering. "Supernatural" was the name of that series, and the numbers ran from one to twenty-four. The other books had yellow-edged pages and a different style, but all the books Ruth could see had the same author: Carver Edlund.

Ruth picked up _Time Is On My Side, _one of the unnumbered books. The cover showed two handsome young men standing inside an old house, just in front of a grandfather clock with no hands. An ominous shadow of a hand holding a knife showed on the wall. She turned the book over and read the teaser on the back.

_Finding body parts is a sure sign of foul play. But losing body parts is even worse! Sam and Dean go looking for a doctor, while Bobby manages to—_

Ruth stopped short. Sam? Dean? And Bobby? A very weird coincidence. She looked at the front cover again, but the men on the cover looked like models from New York City, not like Sam and Dean. Ruth opened the book to a random page and started reading.

And stopped again, a couple of pages in, swearing in disbelief. The Sam and Dean in the book were brothers, just like the Sam and Dean she'd met six weeks ago. They were hunters of supernatural monsters. They drove an old black car. They drank beer. She flipped through the book and found Bobby, the real Bobby, complete to his baseball hat and favorite swear words. He wasn't in a wheelchair, though, and it didn't look like Castiel was in the book at all.

Ruth dug through the books in the box, skimming the teasers and sometimes reading pages in books that had names like _Bloodlust _and _Hookman _and _Skin. _She found vampires and shapeshifters and monsters galore. And sex.

Detailed sex. "Sam's lips caressed her naked skin, tasting and licking and biting, while Madison's hungry mouth found—"

Ruth hastily shut the book called _Heart_ and dropped it back in the box. She was reaching for the book numbered 24 when Mom came down the stairs, calling, "Ruth? Did you find the pan?" Then Mom saw which box Ruth had opened, and she said, "Oh dear." She came over, fluttering her hands about, a half-nervous, half-embarrassed smile on her face. "I see you've find my private stash."

"Um…," was all Ruth could manage.

"Romance novels are just too silly," Mom confided, sitting next to Ruth on the floor and picking up book #13. "All those sighs and ribbons and lace. I like a little more bite to the stories I read." She'd already opened her book.

"Like in _Heart_?" Ruth found herself asking before she could stop herself. The book had fallen open right to that page.

"Oh, yes!" Mom said, and before Ruth could go "um" again, Mom went on, "Sam is so sweet in that one, and of course Madison is his first after Jess."

"Who's Jess?" Ruth asked.

"Jessica. Sam's girlfriend." She looked up abruptly from the book in her lap. "Oh, but you haven't read them yet. Some of them don't add much to the story arc, but most do, and they really should be read in order."

No wonder Ruth always felt like she was walking into the middle of things with the Winchesters.

"But don't go by the numbers," Mom said next. "They had a different publisher for a while, and it got all confused. I have a list here." From the box she pulled out a sheet of paper, neatly typed but much creased. The paper had a list of book titles, each with at least one location and date. "I made a map, too, of their travels, if you like," Mom added then stopped herself and added, "If, I mean, you want to read them?"

"I do," Ruth said. "Very much."

"Oh, good," Mom said with a smile, the first real smile Ruth had seen since they'd found Nathan. "And I promise—no spoilers from me!"

And none from me, either, thought Ruth, very glad indeed that Sam and Dean and Bobby hadn't come for Easter dinner. Mom would've gone nuts.

"Can I take the books upstairs?" Ruth asked. She wanted to start reading right now.

"Yes, of course, only …" Mom glanced around. "Don't tell your father, all right?"

"Oh, no," Ruth reassured her as they headed for the stairs, she carrying the box and Mom carrying the roasting pan.

"It's just… I don't think he would understand me being a Dean-girl."

This time Ruth managed an "Oh" and her mom said, "Careful, dear, don't trip."

By dinnertime, Ruth was almost finished with book #1. "I'll be right out!" she called, but by the time she got to the table the food was cold and her dad had finished and gone.

Mom left the dishes in the sink and joined her at the table. "So…," Mom asked, "what did you think of the book?"

"Really interesting," Ruth said. "And it's terrible about Jess, and their mom." She'd had no idea. Sam never mentioned Jessica at all. While Ruth ate, she and Mom talked, and they kept talking while they did the dishes together.

Right after that, while Mom was rereading book #1, Ruth went into her bedroom to call Bobby. "Who the hell is Carver Edlund?" Ruth began.

"Oh," Bobby said. "Him." He sighed then explained about "Chuck, the prophet of the Lord."

"Chuck," Ruth repeated dubiously. "Writing the 'Winchester Gospels'."

"That's what Castiel calls them. Oh, by the way, he and Dean and Sam got the ring from Pestilence today."

"Great!" Ruth said, and she meant it, because getting the third ring was great, but the fourth ring they needed belonged to Death, and even if they did manage to get it, they would still have to get Lucifer into the cage. They had a long way to go. "Everybody ok?"

"They'll be all right."

"Good." Ruth went back to the writing of the prophet Chuck. "Are these books accurate?"

"There's some dramatic license, and stuff gets left out, of course, but Sam and Dean say mostly, yes."

"You haven't read them?"

"No, and I ain't gonna," Bobby declared. "It's old history, anyway."

Not for her. From just one book, she'd learned a lot about Sam and Dean. And about their parents, John and Mary, and Sam's girlfriend Jessica, and Dean's legions of hookups, and about their car. "This Carver-Chuck guy's not writing now, is he?" Ruth asked, suddenly realizing with horror that she could end up in one of these novels. Then Mom really would go nuts.

"From what I hear, he's still writing, but no one is reading. No publisher."

"Thank God," Ruth murmured.

"Maybe," Bobby said. "Or maybe thank somebody else."

* * *

><p>Ruth spent the next couple of days reading as much as she could. Luckily, the books weren't that long, and besides archery and a translation Bobby had asked for, she didn't have that much else she had to do, so she was able to get a good start on the books her mom said were important to "the story-arc." She'd also heard more than she wanted to about why her mother was a Dean-girl instead of a Sam-girl.<p>

"Which one do you like better?" Mom asked. "Sam or Dean?"

Normally, Ruth either just said what she thought or said nothing, but neither one of those was going to work here. Her mom was waiting, eager to discuss, and for Ruth to say: "They're my cousins so I don't think of them that way" was clearly not an option. "It's a tough choice," Ruth finally said.

"Isn't it?" Mom agreed. "We've had some great discussions in the chat rooms online."

Ruth had looked at some of the online stuff the other night. There was way too much "squee-ing" and "OMG-ing" for her tastes, plus the chats were stuck in a time-lag, because the last book had ended with Dean going to hell. There was the occasional mention of angels, but nobody ever mentioned Castiel or Lucifer or Michael or the end of the world, nothing that mattered now. Like Bobby had said: old history.

Even so, Ruth read parts of the books aloud to Nathan, so that he would know what was going on."I think you'll like Dean and Sam," she told her twin. "Dean's a smart-ass, but he works hard. And he's tough. Sam is more serious. He's good-hearted and kind, but strong when he needs to be." She smiled, or tried to. "He's a lot like you."

Nathan slept on.

Ruth kissed him goodbye and went home to read some more. The next day after breakfast she was reading in the living room when Dad came in and sat down in a chair to ask: "What are your plans, Ruth?"

She'd already gone running and gone to Mass. "Visit Nathan this afternoon. Help Mom with the laundry." She also wanted to practice archery, finish this Supernatural novel, work on a translation and do some web research, then talk to Bobby, but she didn't mention that to Dad. "Do you have something you need me to do, Dad?"

"I do have some paint that needs scraping," he admitted. "But I wasn't talking just about today. What are your plans … for you?"

Ruth shook her head, confused, but when Dad leaned forward, his hands clasped together and his elbows on his knees, she knew she was in for "a talk" that would make his point very clear.

"I know you're here now because of Nathan," Dad began, "and your mom and I are happy to have you at home. But, Ruth, sitting around the house and reading these trashy novels…" Dad shook his head. "You need to have more purpose in your life than that. Now, I know getting a medical discharge from the service was a big change for you, and I know that job in Ohio wasn't part of a career plan, but that's kind of my point. What career plan do you have?"

None.

"Nathan's life has been put on hold," Dad said, keeping his voice almost steady. "But that's no reason for your life to be on hold, too."

* * *

><p>Before lunch, Ruth looked at Help Wanted ads. Most of the jobs were for people with medical training or people to drive trucks. "You could be a teacher," Mom suggested.<p>

Ruth shuddered. At least she knew what she didn't want to do. "I'll work on it tomorrow," she promised then went to call Bobby. They talked about the translation a bit then went over recent portents and omens: weeping statues, freak storms, windows blown out in an old church. "It's not looking good," she said.

"I know," Bobby said. "We're running out of time. But I got a new lead," he said. "And some new ideas."

That was on Saturday. She called Bobby on Monday, but his phone went to voice-mail. A text arrived at 2:22 a.m., saying simply, "Gone on a job out of state. Back sometime this week."

On Wednesday morning, Ruth decided to go to Bobby's. Her dad was offering way too many helpful suggestions about job-hunting, and Mom was talking way too much about the cuteness of Dean. "I'm going to go look into a job, Dad," Ruth said, and he nodded approvingly. She didn't tell him what kind of job. She sent texts to Bobby and Sam and Dean then packed a bag and her archery gear (and the Supernatural books) and drove through the rain to Sioux Falls.

She knocked on Bobby's door, just in case, but they weren't back yet, which meant she still had time to cook dinner. She got the hidden key that Bobby had told her about and let herself in. She was surprised to see Bobby's wheelchair in a corner in the front hall. He might have gotten another one, but they were expensive. Maybe he was renting one to try it out. Ruth went to the kitchen and started cooking food that could keep a while: soup and cornbread and ham. And pie, of course. Apple this time.

* * *

><p>She fell asleep in the bedroom upstairs, reading <em>Croatoan. <em>At five in the morning, Ruth woke up to bright lights moving outside. When she looked out the window, she saw Sam getting out of a van. She pulled on a sweatshirt over her pajamas, stepped into her moccasins, and went down the stairs and onto the porch. The rain was still coming down, and it was cold. "Can I help?" she called but Sam was already jogging toward the house with his duffel bag. Castiel appeared from the far side of the van with empty hands. He looked shorter somehow, and tired.

"Where's Bobby?" Ruth asked Sam with growing concern. He turned, and so she turned, and there was Bobby, getting out of the van and walking to the house.

Bobby.

Walking.

"What the hell?" she exclaimed.

"Exactly," said Castiel, rain water dripping off the tip of his nose as he stood in the yard.

She ignored him because now Bobby was standing right in front of her on the porch, with an embarrassed-happy grin on his face. He was taller than she had realized, and she couldn't read the writing on his baseball hat because it was too high. "Bobby?"

"Yeah, I know," he said, holding up a hand. "I got my legs back. Let's go in; it's cold out here."

Ruth was right behind him as Bobby walked—walked!—through the hall. Sam and Castiel followed her. In the kitchen, she demanded: "How?"

"A fiend of hell," Castiel proclaimed. "Bobby sold his soul."

"You didn't," Ruth whispered in horror.

"I didn't," Bobby reassured her then glared at Castiel. "It's a loan," Bobby said testily, as if he'd said that a dozen times before. "And for a damned good cause."

Castiel shook his head. "What is good cannot be damned."

"That's crap," Bobby said. "Dean went to hell, and so did John, and they're both good men."

"And so are you," Castiel replied. "Yet you bargain with demons you know cannot be trusted, and you hand over to them the thing they want most."

"Souls," Sam said.

"Power," Castiel contradicted. He sniffed the air. "Do I smell pie?"

"Apple," Ruth told him before asking Bobby: "Is this demon your 'new lead'?"

"Yeah, well, everything's going to hell anyway."

Ruth wasn't planning to.

"We need help, and we need it now," Bobby explained, "so I made a temporary arrangement. Crowley's been giving us some good information these last few days."

Ruth wondered if this Crowley had yellow eyes like Azazel, or black eyes like other demons. She'd ask Bobby later.

"And he just helped Dean find Death," Bobby added. "Dean'll be here around noon with Death's ring."

"All four," Ruth murmured. She'd never given that scheme much hope.

"All four," Sam confirmed. "Now we can lock Lucifer back in cage."

"How are you going to lure him in?" Ruth asked.

"I'm the bait," Sam said then he looked around the kitchen and asked with a smile, "Is that food for us? It smells great. And I would love a piece of apple pie."

"Hey, uh, Sam," Bobby said, "while you're helping Ruth get the food out, Castiel and I will unload the van."

"I can get the food," Ruth protested. "It doesn't take two people."

"No," Sam said. "Bobby's right. If I want to eat, I should help in the kitchen."

"There's not that much to unload anyway," Bobby said, and he and Castiel went back out into the rain. Ten minutes later, they all sat down to eat, and there wasn't much talking during that. Then Bobby went to take a shower, and Sam went upstairs to bed.

Ruth leaned back in the old wooden chair, far enough to balance on its two back legs, and examined Castiel. Not only did he look shorter and seem tired, he was eating. And he seemed … different somehow. "What happened to you?" she asked. "Demons?"

His mouth twisted, as if he were eating something nasty instead of chowing down on his third piece of apple pie. "Angels."

"One of them named Michael?" she guessed. Castiel's head came up, and in his eyes Ruth saw a bleak flinch of pain and then the far-focused laser stare of someone who was eager to kill. She brought her chair back down. "That bad, huh?"

"That bad." He crushed some crumbs under the tines of his fork then pushed his empty plate to the side. "And worse."

"What happened?" she asked again, because it looked like Castiel, weirdly enough, wanted to talk.

He hesitated then admitted, "My grace was stripped from me. I was cast out of Heaven."

He looked up again, meeting her gaze, and now his eyes held the sad frightened hurt of an abused and orphaned child. Even though he was an angel, Ruth was starting to feel sorry for him.

"This…," Castiel waved his hand in front of his chest, "this vessel is all that I am now."

"No powers?" she asked, because that would explain why he seemed smaller.

"No powers," he confirmed. "At all."

"Wow. That sucks." And not just for him. They needed all the superpowers they could get. Castiel laughed, a painful laugh, but a laugh. She hadn't known angels could do that.

"It sucks indeed," he agreed.

"So you're like a human now."

"No. Humans have eternal souls. When this vessel ceases, so shall I."

"Oh." That sucked, too. "Well, at least that means you can't end up in hell." Not like Dean had, for a while. Not like John Winchester still was. Not like Bobby, if he didn't get his soul back somehow.

"If Lucifer wins, Hell will come here." Castiel leaned forward, his eyes intent on hers. "So we cannot touch Michael until Lucifer is vanquished, either by Michael … or by us."

"Yeah," Ruth reluctantly agreed. This was way bigger than she had thought two months ago, and this was the fight Nathan had started. She owed it to him to try to win it. Even so… "Trying to take out an archangel is bad enough," Ruth said. "Taking out the devil?" She shook her head.

"Lucifer is an archangel," Castiel reminded her. "Just like Michael. How have you planned to 'take out' him?"

"Angel-piercing arrows," she told him. "I used the shards of a blade for the points."

"My blade," Castiel said. He seemed pleased by that. "Arrows could work."

"Not unless there's a target," she pointed out. Sergeant Zimsky's lesson #47: Find the enemy first. Then kill him. "Do you think Lucifer will take the bait? Will he come if Sam calls?"

"I am sure of it," Castiel replied. "Because Sam is going to say 'Yes'."

"No fucking way," Ruth breathed, then began shaking her head as righteous rage started to build. "Sam swore he would never give in."

"He is not 'giving in'. It is a suicide mission. Sam plans to fling himself—and Lucifer—into the cage."

Ruth's anger froze, leaving her cold inside. "Can he do that?"

"Possibly. But it will not be easy. He may fail. Could you shoot Sam with these arrows?"

Sam on a suicide mission. Sam's body inhabited by Lucifer. Sam would already be gone, or stuck inside screaming. Ruth nodded. "Yes."

"An arrow through the throat would be effective," Castiel informed her.

"Yeah, right," she agreed, trying not to roll her eyes. It would also be extremely difficult. She was going to aim lower down. "What about Michael?" Ruth asked. "He'll be going after Dean again, right?"

"No. Michael has already taken Dean's half-brother, Adam, as his vessel."

"Damn," Ruth muttered. So much for stopping Michael from hurting someone else. Even if Adam had already been dead. But she would do what she could to make sure Adam would be the last. "What's Michael doing now? Just waiting for Lucifer?"

"Probably. Michael may arrive as soon as Lucifer has a vessel. I will let you know you when Sam plans to say yes."

Finally. A mission, instead of endless training. "Good," she said fiercely."When?"

"A day or two, at least."

That would give her time to go home for a final farewell. She wasn't planning on a suicide mission, but she knew the odds weren't good. She would say goodbye to Nathan, but she would write a letter to Mom and Dad. Ruth didn't want to do it that way, but she couldn't explain any of this without them thinking she was crazy and trying to stop her.

"What's your part in this?" she asked Castiel.

"I … do not know," he admitted after a moment. "I will help Dean and Sam as best I can, but this vessel is weak, and I am weaponless. Except for the gun Bobby gave me. It is surprisingly effective."

Ruth liked guns, too, but they didn't work on angels. "Can you shoot a bow?" She had four arrows, but she knew that if she missed with the first, she'd never get a chance to shoot the second. Might as well arm as many people as possible.

But Castiel was shaking his head. "I am not an archer. Dean is, but we cannot tell him. Lucifer will know whatever Sam knows, and if Dean knows…"

"… then Sam will suspect," Ruth finished. According to the books, the brothers often kept secrets from each other, but they didn't keep them very well, and this was too important to take a chance. "OK," Ruth said. "And Bobby doesn't need to know, either." He would probably try to stop her, too, just like her parents.

"True," Castiel agreed.

The mission brief for this covert op was over. Ruth stood to clear away the dishes, but Castiel touched her hand again. "If you have to choose between Michael and Lucifer," he warned, "shoot Lucifer first."

"Yeah," Ruth muttered again. Like that would be easy. Like any of this would be easy. "Right."

When the kitchen was cleaned up, Ruth got a book from the stacks in the library then went back to her bedroom, but she couldn't sleep. Apparently, someone else couldn't either. She heard footsteps, going up and going down, over and over again. She opened her door and saw Bobby half-way up the stairs.

He looked up, shrugged, and grinned. "I still can't believe it," he said, waving a hand at his feet.

Ruth came out into the hall and sat at the top of the stair, then idly drew lines in the dust on the worn wooden floor. Bobby joined her there, sighing a little as he sat down. "What's he like?" she asked. "This Crowley demon?"

"He's a know-it-all annoying little piss-ant." Bobby gave a snort of laughter. "I unloaded a round of rock salt in him. Hurt him just for a little bit, but it sure felt good to me for a while."

Ruth knew that feeling. "Does he have yellow eyes?"

"Not that he's shown. He just looks … normal."

"The books say demons usually do."

"Oh, yeah. The books." Bobby scratched at his right calf then leaned back and began watching in wonder as he moved his toes. "You read many of them?"

"About half. You first show up in the _Devil's Trap._"

His toes stopped. "Which devil's trap?"

"The one where you catch Meg. It's the title of the book."

"Stupid title," Bobby muttered. "We built a lot of devil's traps."

But they didn't catch devils; they caught demons. And demons granted wishes, like genies from a bottle. Ruth stretched. "It's nearly dawn. I'm going to go running." Then she grinned at Bobby. "Want to come with?"

He chuckled but shook his head. "Not today. I'm going to be sore just from these stairs."

* * *

><p>After her run, Ruth went to the eight o'clock Mass as usual, then went back to Bobby's. Dean hadn't shown up with Death's ring yet, but everybody was awake. She had a cup of coffee with the guys then stood to leave. Castiel gave her a solemn nod. She hugged Bobby, and this time he hugged her back with strong arms, instead of her having to lean down. She hugged Sam, too.<p>

He tried to smile. "Goodbye, Ruth."

Next time she saw him, the devil would have taken over his body, and she'd be aiming to kill. Ruth stretched up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodbye, Sam." She made it back to her car before her tears began.

Ruth got back to her folks' house in time for lunch. She spent the day writing her farewell letter, visiting Nathan, and shooting arrows in the backyard. That night, she drove a few miles south of town until the roads went from paved to dirt, then parked her car next to a field that shimmered with young stalks of wheat.

The roads ran straight out here, marking the land into square fields, and the round moon lay just above the eastern road, like it was resting on the ground. A new moon would have been better, but at least the moon was waning. The dark called to the dark, so the book from Bobby's library said. The sun had set two hours ago, and its glow in the western sky had faded away.

Ruth took a shovel from her car, paced out the center of the crossroads, then started to dig. After about ten minutes, she took a small bag from her coat pocket and placed it in the hole. She used her bare hands to put the dirt back in. Then she went to one of the corners of the crossroad and settled in to wait.

The moon rose, lifting above the road, its color shifting from golden yellow to white. The wind whispered among the new-grown wheat. It was too cold for crickets to sing, but the stars were pretty, and the Milky Way stretched wide. Ruth huddled into her coat and waited.

He came at midnight, walking along the silver ribbon of the western road. In the moonlight, his skin was milk chocolate, and he was whistling a song she hadn't heard in more than three years. "Eli," she whispered, coming to her feet.

But it wasn't Eli. Eli had been taller and darker, and his smile had been sweet, not mocking. And Eli was dead. Ruth shuddered then crossed her arms over her chest and waited, trying to look cool and not show her fear.

The demon kept walking until he stood at the center of the crossroads. He reached down and then somehow her pouch was in his hand. He poured the contents out onto his palm: a set of military dog-tags, a lock of hair, a finger bone, a shriveled berry. "Hello, Ruth," he said, finally turning to face her.

She stepped forward, her hands in her coat pockets now. "Hello, Demon," she replied, trying to keep her expression calm and her voice steady as the bargaining began.

But all of a sudden, he was the one who seemed nervous. His smug smile faltered and he blinked and looked away. He read the dog-tags in his hand, glanced up, and said, "Wait here." Then he disappeared.

"Damn it," Ruth swore.

"Damning things is part of the job," said a voice behind her on the north road.

Ruth pivoted immediately, her knife out and ready in her left hand, but the owner of the voice strolled forward, unconcerned. He was of average height, a little on the stocky side, and his dark hair was going thin on top. He had his hands in his coat pockets, too. He stopped four paces away, looking up at the night sky.

He'd sounded British, Ruth thought, and his smile wasn't merely smug; it was a smirk. "Where'd the first demon go?" she asked.

"To fetch me," he said, glancing her way and then back to the stars. "All Winchester family members qualify for premium service. How might I serve you tonight?"

Ruth really didn't like the idea of being under demon surveillance. It was even worse than having angels watching over you. But she'd given up privacy when she'd put her dog-tags into that pouch and asked a demon to appear. "Tell me your name," she said.

"Your friend Bobby calls me Crowley."

The King of the Crossroads himself. Ruth took a deep breath and stood her ground.

"And a few other things," he added.

She'd heard a few. Arrogant asshole. Double-crossing bastard. Well, either he could help or he couldn't; she might as well ask. "You healed Bobby," Ruth began. "Can you bind my brother's soul back to his body?"

"Souls are our specialty," Crowley said with a cheerful smile that disappeared as fast as a raindrop got eaten by desert sands. "But we take them. We don't put them back." He shrugged. "Sorry. No."

Ruth took her time sheathing her knife, swallowing the disappointment. It had been a long shot; she'd always known that, but she didn't want Mom and Dad to be left with no children at all.

"Anything else I can interest you in?" Crowley asked. "True love? Inexhaustible wealth? Your arm good as new?" His tone was mocking, his expression bored. He wasn't even bothering to look at her; he was checking out her car.

And why not? She didn't want anything else, not at his price, and he knew it. Except, perhaps… "Can I have my dog-tags back?" For answer, he tossed her pouch to her; she was surprised to find that it was cold. She looked inside and found everything there.

"That finger bone is from a young one," he commented as she carefully tucked the pouch into an inner pocket of her coat.

"I know." Ruth stuck her hands back in her pockets and took a long look at Crowley. "I'm surprised you didn't lie to me about being able to heal Nathan."

"Lie?" Crowley repeated in disbelief, as if he'd never heard the word. "My darling girl, if I can't make a deal with the truth, it's time for me to retire. Perhaps not the plain, unvarnished truth," he admitted, "but truth nevertheless."

Huh. A demon with professional pride. And people who were proud liked to tell you why. "Why are you helping Sam and Dean and Bobby?" she asked.

"I don't much fancy having Lucifer as a boss."

That was definitely the truth. And that was also the end of the conversation, because Crowley laid a finger aside his nose, gave her a nod, and disappeared.

"Damn it," Ruth swore. She hated when they did that. She hated angels and demons screwing up people's lives and then just flying away. "Damn them all."

* * *

><p>Crowley left Ruth in the dark then popped over to Bobby's place to have a chat with Castiel. The angel's vessel was sleeping, and he had, wonder of wonders, taken off the perennial trench coat. His shirt and tie and jacket were hung neatly over the back of the wooden chair in the corner of the small bedroom. The trousers were there, too, and the shoes and socks were under the bed. Castiel was wearing only a white t-shirt and (Crowley peeked under the covers) light blue boxers.<p>

Crowley smiled down at him then sat on the edge of the bed and gave Castiel a gentle pat on the cheek, like a cat who wanted its breakfast.

Castiel woke up, blinked, and shoved Crowley away with both hands. Not with the strength of an angel, but still with enough force to dump Crowley on the floor. Crowley looked up at him and grinned. "Good morning, Sunshine."

"It is not morning," Castiel stated flatly. His hair was spiked up in places, and he needed a shave. In the moonlight, he looked adorably rumpled.

"It's after midnight," Crowley pointed out. "That means it's morning."

"It is twelve-seventeen. There is no sunshine."

"And as my friend Anita says," Crowley said as he picked himself up, "a day without sunshine is like a day without orange juice. Or demon juice in this case." He sat on the chair that held Castiel's clothes. "Got enough blood for Sam?"

Castiel sat up on the bed, back straight and legs crossed. The blankets covered his lower half, and his hands were relaxed on his thighs. "Bobby and I drained two demon corpses in Nevada. He and I carried the blood in from the van the night we arrived. "

"Without Sam's help," Crowley observed.

"He was … agitated."

"He was hungry," Crowley corrected. That must have been hell for the boy, driving across the country with the scent of all that demon blood wafting enticingly through the air. "You're down to two gallons now."

"There were four."

"As I said: Sam's hungry. I'll bring you more." Castiel nodded, and Crowley wasn't surprised that Castiel, arrogant bastard that he was, didn't have the decency to say thank-you. "What can you tell me about Ruth?" Crowley asked.

Castiel may have lost his power, but he hadn't lost his stare. He just looked at Crowley with supreme and stony indifference.

So Crowley got chatty. "She's a girl on fire, that one." Just to look at her had hurt his eyes. He couldn't possibly have taken that soul into hell, glowing like a pulsar. "Feisty, too."

"When did you see her?"

"Just now, at midnight. She called me to the crossroads." He leaned forward to confide, "I gave her what she wanted."

"Ruth would not—" Castiel bit off whatever he had been going to say.

"Would not what?" Crowley teased. "Traffic with demons?" He licked his lips, slowly, with the tip of his tongue. "Kiss one?" That got a glowering stare. Crowley leaned back—putting creases in Castiel's clothes—and crossed his legs at the ankles, taking the opportunity to admire his alligator shoes. "She and her brother got dosed with angel blood at an early age, didn't they?"

"She has a part to play," Castiel admitted then tried to bury it with egalitarian tripe: "As do we all."

"Amen, brother," Crowley agreed cheerfully, and got another stony look in return. "What?" he challenged. "You don't think demons are part of the ineffable plan? You don't think we can play?" He liked to play. He wouldn't mind a bit of play right now. Castiel might be a dis-graced angel, but the body he was living in was human, with all of a human's wants and needs, and desire was Crowley's bread and butter.

Over the centuries, he'd tasted desire in its many, many forms—that emptiness inside that ached to be filled, that fire that licked its way along your veins, that driving need that left you gasping…

"Leave," Castiel ordered. His hands had tightened on the blanket, and Crowley could see the steady pulse of blood on the right side of the angel's neck.

Crowley kept most of his smile to himself. "Of course." He stood, then turned and rehung all of Castiel's clothes, taking particular care with the tie. Blue and silky, long and straight. The color matched Castiel's eyes. Then Crowley stepped over to the bed, looked deep into those lovely, searching eyes, and kissed Castiel.

Sadly, only on the forehead. Castiel's eyes narrowed in outrage and his lips parted, and at the sight of that small yet luscious opening, Crowley tasted his own desire: fiercely urgent and achingly hot. But there was to be no slaking tonight, for once again Castiel ordered: "Leave."

"I'll see you soon," Crowley promised with a bit of a wink. "Sunshine."

Oh, yes. The two of them definitely had parts to play.

* * *

><p>As soon as the demon Crowley disappeared from the bedroom, Castiel turned to look at the mirror above the dresser. He could still feel the imprint and the shape of Crowley's lips on his skin, and he almost expected to see a glowing mark on his forehead. But there was nothing to be seen. He scrubbed with the heel of his hand, and after a moment there was nothing to be felt.<p>

Castiel knew that demons were full of mockery and lies. That kiss had been an impudent gesture, designed to irritate. Crowley's words had been lies. Ruth would never have made a deal with a demon. Although, yesterday, she had easily succumbed to his own suggestions. Perhaps she was weaker than he had thought. He would need to be diligent.

By design, humans were frail as well as disobedient and willful, which made them unreliable. Yet, oddly, their very willfulness sometimes caused them to persevere. Or as Bobby sometimes said: "Stubborn to the point of stupid."

Sam would need to be stupidly stubborn for their plan to succeed. Castiel had encouraged him, and Bobby and even Dean were supporting Sam, too. If Sam could overcome Lucifer and take him back to the cage, then Michael would have no one to fight. He would be distracted and off-guard. A perfect time to strike.

Ruth could kill him. Castiel did not begrudge her that. He simply wanted to be there to watch Michael die.


End file.
